Abby's Last Stand Read online

  Abby's Last Stand

  by Michelle Marquis

  Amira Press

  www.amirapress.com

  Copyright ©

  First published in 2011

  NOTICE: This eBook is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution to any person via email, floppy disk, network, print out, or any other means is a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines and/or imprisonment. This notice overrides the Adobe Reader permissions which are erroneous. This eBook cannot be legally lent or given to others.

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  Abby's Last Stand

  by Michelle Marquis

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Epilogue: Ten Months Later

  About the Author

  * * * *

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  Abby's Last Stand

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  Abby's Last Stand

  Copyright (C) June 2011, Michelle Marquis Cover art by Elaina Lee (C) June 2011

  Amira Press

  Charlotte, NC 28227

  www.amirapress.com

  ISBN: 978-1-936279-91-3

  No part of this e-book may be reproduced or shared by any electronic or mechanical means, including but not limited to printing, file sharing, and e-mail, without prior written permission from Amira Press.

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  Dedication

  For all those who ride 'em hard and put 'em away wet.

  * * * *

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  Chapter One

  The landscape was barren but beautiful. Abby Wimple stared out the coach window as it shifted and pitched wondering what she was going to do when she reached the end of the line. Well, the end of the line for her anyway.

  Her trip hadn't been planned. It was an impromptu journey to reclaim something that had been taken from her: a feeling of safety and justice. Perhaps her aching desire to escape the mundane life of a small-town seamstress added to it. But a new life, no matter what the motivation, wanted for money and Abby was very close to all out. She just hoped she could find work when she reached her destination.

  The coach rolled and jerked over the rugged dirt road. A dozing banker with a thick, gray mustache stirred then rolled his head onto the shoulder of a middle-aged schoolteacher.

  The woman clutched the worn leather bag on her lap as if it contained the secrets of the known world. When the banker's head came to rest on her shoulder, she shrugged it off angrily. The banker woke for a moment, glanced around, and then folded his arms and resumed sleeping.

  Abby wished sleep would come that easily to her.

  Even with the open windows, the inside of the coach was hot and stuffy. Add to that the stink of sweating bodies that hadn't been able to bathe in a few days and you had one steamy ticket to misery. A young man with deep acne scars sat next to her. He hadn't said anything the whole three-hour ride, but finally the boredom must have gotten to him 6

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  because he leaned over and asked her if she was headed to Foster's Gulch.

  Abby didn't want to be rude, but she didn't want to be too friendly either. She gave him a brief smile. "If that's the next stop, then yes, that's where I'm headed."

  "You got family there?" he asked.

  "No, just looking to start a new life."

  "Running from someone, are ya?"

  "No, nothing like that."

  The man looked thoughtful, and Abby wished for all the world that he would mind his own business and stop talking to her. She didn't want someone sticking his nose in her personal affairs. The man squinted at her, and it made him look even uglier, if that were possible. "You ever been there?"

  he asked.

  "Um, no."

  "Well, if you don't mind me saying, miss, that's a rough town. They got outlaws and gunslingers emptying lead into each other almost every night when the saloon closes. Not really a place for a lady alone."

  "Who said I was alone?"

  The man glanced around the coach. "I didn't see you with nobody."

  Abby hated to lie, but this person was fishing for information and she didn't like it one bit. "I have some friends in town waiting for me."

  The man's brow creased like he was trying to decipher a riddle. "What kind of work do your friends do?"

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  She forced a smile but made her tone a little harsher. "I appreciate your concern, sir, but I'd rather not discuss my personal business with you anymore. No offense."

  The man blinked at her like she'd just spit in his eye. Then his mouth dipped into a severe frown, and he turned his attention to the passing scenery.

  "You a whore?" the schoolteacher blurted out.

  Abby iced her with a cold stare before she answered. "I most certainly am not, madam. What would possess you to say something so insulting?"

  The schoolteacher was unfazed by Abby's disdain. "Only kind of women who can get work out at Foster's Gulch are women of ill repute."

  Abby couldn't believe how obnoxious this woman was. "If you must know, I'm a widow and I can assure you, I earn my living by legitimate means."

  "What are those means?" the teacher pressed.

  Abby made her mouth into a straight line to show her displeasure. "I'm a seamstress."

  The woman scoffed. "They ain't got no use for dressmakers in a town like that. You'll be starving outside a week and end up selling your body to survive."

  "First of all, I'm not a dressmaker. As I told you, I'm a seamstress and a damn good one, too, if I might add.

  Second, if I can't find work sewing, I'm sure I can find other employment. I'm willing to do anything except sell myself, so you needn't worry about me, madam."

  The teacher stared down at her bag. "Nobody there's gonna need your damn fool sewing."

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  "And just what makes you such an expert on it?"

  The teacher shrugged. "Folks know about that place. Most folks, that is, 'cept for you. You don't seem to have the good sense God gave a mule. You mark my words, Foster's Gulch ain't no place for a young woman alone. You'll find that out soon enough. And if you have any sense at all, you'll borrow the money lickety-split to get the hell out of there. That place is nothing but a haven for devils and thieves."

  "I'll keep your advice in mind," Abby said. She hoped the edge to her voice would tell anyone else wanting to offer unsolicited advice to save it. She wasn't a child; she knew what she was doing.

  The coach suddenly came to an abrupt stop. Abby could see a few weathered buildings surrounding them. The door opened, and the coachman was there holding her two carpet bags.

  "End of the line for you, miss. This here's Foster's Gulch."

  Abby climbed over the other passengers and got out.

  They'd dropped her off in the middle of the road in what could only be the center of town. From what she could see, it didn't look like much. A creeping dread filled her with panic. What if that crazy old maid was right? What if I've made a terrible mistake coming here? But the moment those doubts filled her she quickly chased them away. She
had to make this work.

  She had to finish her business; her sister was counting on her.

  Abby reached down and picked up her bags. Then she headed to the largest building in the middle of this sorry little 9

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  town. The huge sign above read "Saloon." She summoned up her courage and pushed through the swinging doors.

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  Chapter Two

  The saloon was noisy, dusty, and hot. Abby pushed through the swinging doors carrying her two heavy bags. All eyes were immediately on her. The looks were curious, probing, and some downright scary. She avoided eye contact with anyone and quickly made her way over to the far end of the bar. There she squeezed into a corner and climbed up on the barstool. The barkeep came over and stared at her. He was a big man with small, mean eyes, a shaved head, and a thick, gray mustache.

  "What's your poison?" he asked.

  Abby glanced around nervously. "Ah . . . I was wondering if I could just have a glass of water."

  "Water?"

  "If you have it."

  "You say you wanted water?"

  "Yes, you heard me right."

  "Water ain't free here, miss. We charge fifty cents per glass."

  A few nasty chuckles came from the men sitting nearby.

  Abby didn't want any trouble. The barkeep was obviously cheating her, but she was so thirsty. She dug through to the bottom of her bag and felt around for two coins. Someone walked up, his boots thumping and spurs jingling with every footfall. The boots belonged to the roughest-looking man Abby had ever seen. He seemed to her to be a giant with a face so hard and cruel it chilled her blood just to look at it.

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  Her dry mouth went instantly drier. Across the man's hips was a holster for two pistols and lots of bullets. He was dressed all in dark brown and black, right down to his boots.

  He definitely fit the stereotype of a gunfighter.

  He placed two shiny silver coins on the bar. "Her drink's on me."

  Abby was grateful for his kindness but worried over what it might cost. The barkeep took the two coins and placed a glass of water in front of her. The glass was a little dusty, and there were a few specks floating in the water, but Abby was so thirsty she reached for it anyway.

  The gunfighter grabbed the glass first. He picked it up and slowly poured the contents all over the barkeeps feet. The bald barkeep and the gunfighter exchanged a cold, tense stare. "That ain't no way to treat a lady, Buck. You gonna have the gall to change this girl then you gonna give her dirty water to drink?" He held the now-empty glass out. "I know you can do better than that."

  Abby was about to say it was fine, she'd drink it, when the bald man walked away. To her surprise, he came back with a clean glass of fresh water. She grabbed the glass from him and downed the whole thing in a few long swallows. Then she replaced the glass on the bar.

  The gunfighter watched her, amused. He didn't smile, but there were small lines around his eyes when he squinted that made him look like he was laughing at the world. "You want another one?"

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  Abby was sure it might be a mistake to say 'yes,' but she was already beholden to him for the first one, so how much worse could it get? "Yes, please."

  The gunfighter put two more shiny coins on the bar. The barkeep, apparently embarrassed about charging her, pushed the coins back to the gunfighter and gave her another glass of cool water.

  He folded his beefy arms and studied the gunfighter. "You gonna order a drink or you drinking water, too?"

  The gunfighter scratched the razor stubble under his chin.

  "Bring me a shot of whiskey and leave the bottle."

  The barkeep nodded.

  "Oh, and Buck?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Only bring the good stuff." He winked, but it somehow conveyed a hidden threat.

  The barkeep disappeared into a backroom concealed by a torn piece of gray fabric. Abby was alone with the gunfighter.

  "Thank you for the water."

  The gunfighter eased onto the stool next to her. The faint scent of gunpowder and wood smoke filled her senses. "You waiting on a coach or just get off one?"

  "I just got off one. I was hoping to settle here for a while, maybe find some work."

  The barkeep returned with two shot glasses and a bottle.

  The gunfighter placed one of the glasses in front of her and poured her some whiskey. He downed two shots. "What do you do?"

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  "I'm a seamstress." She stared down at her glass. She'd never drunk hard liquor before. She was raised to believe it was the devil's drink. "I don't mean to be rude, but I don't drink."

  The gunfighter shifted on his stool and tossed back two more shots. "What does a seamstress do?" His eyes were impossible to see under the flat-brimmed hat, but she could see them shine every now and then.

  "I repair clothing that is torn or frayed. I'm hoping to get good enough to be a dressmaker someday."

  "That so?"

  A big, barrel-chested man moseyed over and stood right between her and the gunfighter. The energy in the room seemed to spike. "What 'chew got here, Bear?"

  The gunfighter took a drink and in the next instant pulled his revolver. He pointed it at the big man and pulled back the hammer. "You need to sit down and get back to your poker game before your luck runs out."

  "Okay, okay, Bear," the big man said, holding his hands up in surrender. "I was just trying to be friendly like. I didn't mean to get you all riled up." The man returned to his table and picked up a deck of cards. Someone started playing a festive tune on the piano.

  Abby swallowed, feeling small and vulnerable. "Is Bear your Christian name or a nickname?"

  A strange grin softened his features. "It's Bear. Bear Tooth McCoy. It's an Indian name."

  "My name is Abby, Abby Wimple." She grabbed her bags and eased out of the stool. She needed to put some distance 14

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  between her and this very dangerous man. "Well, um . . .

  Mister Bear Tooth, I'm very grateful for your kindness, but I should be going. I need to find a position."

  "As a seamstress?"

  "Yes, sir."

  He turned his stool around to face the patrons and rested his elbows on the bar. "Take a good look around you, Abby.

  You see anyone here that might be in need of your services?"

  She scanned the room and saw quite a few men with dirty, torn shirts and pants. "A few, yes."

  "And how many of those people do you think are gonna take you up on your offer? Well, before you answer that, let me tell you. Not a one. The only services these men want from you are the ones you couldn't tell your momma about."

  Abby's stomach dropped to her toes, and she was feeling very ill. Someone's got to want to employ me. I really need the money. He can't be right about everyone! She tried not to panic. "Surely there must be other good people in this town who have need of what I have to offer."

  "You believe that and you're just lying to yourself. This is a town of cutthroats, gunfighters, thieves, and nothing else. If you had any sense, you'd sit your pretty little ass outside and wait for the next coach."

  Hunger gnawed at her belly. She let out a defeated sigh. "I can't leave town. I have no money. Besides, I have business here."

  "I get it. This was as far as your money would take you.

  Didn't you have a plan to survive after you got here?"

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  "Getting a job was my plan. I've never had a problem finding work."
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  Bear put the cork back in the bottle of whiskey and picked it up. "You better come on with me then."

  "Where are we going?"

  "Back to my hotel room."

  "Why?"

  "You just told me you ain't got no money. You want to spend the night here?"

  Abby didn't need to think that one over. "No, of course not."

  He shrugged. "Up to you. You can come, or you can take your chances." He grinned. "I'm sure one of these men will be happy to take you in."

  He was right. What choice did she have? Abby quickly fell into step behind Bear, ignoring the obnoxious catcalls from some of the men in the saloon. Some of these men were nothing but swine.

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  Chapter Three

  Snake Eyes McCoy lit what was left of his cigar and went over to the window. His brother Bear should have been back by now. He hoped Bear hadn't gotten into a fight at the saloon. He hated having to drag his ass out late at night to bail him out of a jam. Unfortunately, it was looking like that's exactly what he was going to have to do. He'd give his brother a few more minutes, and then he was going to have to go out after him.

  The door opened, and Snake whirled around and pulled both his pistols. He found he was pointing them at the prettiest woman he'd ever laid eyes on. Bear wasn't far behind the lady. Snake gave an apologetic grin and holstered his weapons.

  "Sorry, ma'am," he said.

  Bear closed the door behind them. He glanced at Snake's shirtless chest. "Why don't you put some clothes on? We have a guest."

  Snake smiled. "Is she a guest, or are we her clients?"

  "She ain't that kind of guest," Bear grumbled.

  Snake was disappointed. Some female company was just what he and his brother needed to take the edge off. Too bad she was a real lady and not a business woman, so to speak.

  He pulled on a white button-front shirt and leaned against the wall. The lady wouldn't look him in the eye. She kept her gaze on the floorboards just like a good girl should.