Paden gripped the metal bar atop the coach as it jerked to a stop way past the sheriff’s office in the main part of town. In the history of stopping a stagecoach, this had to be one of the worst attempts, he thought.
Poor Rosalie had attempted to stop the stagecoach on at least three other occasions, including in front of the station, but the team wouldn’t follow her prompts. The driver offered advice, but the team was taking advantage of Rosalie’s inexperience. A group of people started descending out of the buildings and two men ran up and secured the bridles of the lead horses.
Taking charge, Paden shouted as he climbed down from the stagecoach, “Road agents attempted to rob the stagecoach and shot the driver. He needs a doctor.”
A loud, collective gasp rippled through the group.
“I’m a doctor,” a man stated, making his way through the crowd. He stepped off the boardwalk and walked around to the driver’s box. “Can you walk?”
“No,” the driver grunted.
Turning toward the group, the doctor asked, “Who will help me carry this man to my clinic?”
A few men jumped to do the doctor’s bidding while Paden went to assist Rosalie from the driver’s bench, but she was busy assisting the driver as he attempted to step down to the men on the ground. Instead, Paden opened the stagecoach door and assisted the passengers out.
After Mrs. Weipert and her granddaughter exited the coach, she handed him Rosalie’s skirt. “I thought your wife might want this returned.”
“Thank you.” He smiled as he accepted the skirt.
“What is going on here?” a man shouted from behind him.
Turning around, the first thing that Paden saw was the silver badge pinned onto his grey jacket, informing everyone that this man was the sheriff. The lawman was brawny, with a short beard and bushy black eyebrows.
Mrs. Weipert approached the sheriff. “The stagecoach was ambushed by road agents, but this man,” she pointed at Paden, “and his wife saved us all.”
“Is that so?” the sheriff asked, his hands resting on his gun belt. “How many people were killed?”
Rosalie appeared next to him. “We killed five members of Bill Garrett’s gang, but that was only after they killed the shotgun messenger.”
The sheriff’s disapproving eyes roamed the length of Rosalie’s body, stopping at the revolver strapped to her right leg. “It would be best if we continued this conversation in private,” he said, waving them toward his office.
Paden reached out and grabbed Rosalie’s arm, turning her to face him. Her hair was disheveled, her blouse was ripped, and she had dried blood on her right cheek.
“You’re hurt,” he murmured, bringing his hand up to wipe the blood away.
“I don’t think that’s my blood,” she said. “I used the shotgun messenger’s body as a shield from the bullets.”
Paden frowned. That had been a smart thing to do, but he didn’t like the fact that she had put her life on the line. “Are you injured anywhere?” His eyes roamed her face, neck and shoulders.
Rosalie rotated her right shoulder. “My shoulder is sore from the shotgun’s recoil.”
He pointed at a large blood spot that had saturated her shirt on her left arm. “What happened there?”
“I don’t recall,” she murmured, following his gaze.
Now that they had arrived in one piece, Paden felt anger stirring inside of him, and it was all because of his new wife. How could she not recall? What had she been thinking? He attempted to keep his anger under control, but he felt like he was fighting a losing battle.
“What were you thinking back there?” he shouted at her, right there on the boardwalk, surrounded by people milling about.
Rosalie looked up at him in confusion, which seemed to fuel his anger even more. He stepped closer to her and continued his assault. “Are you insane? You put your life at risk with your acrobatics on top of the stagecoach.”
Her eyes darted toward the people stopping to watch them. “I did what needed to be done,” she replied, keeping her voice low. “They killed the messenger, and I knew we needed a sharpshooter on the roof of the stagecoach.”
“You should have let me go.”
A line between her brows appeared. “I just reacted. I hadn’t realized you intended to go up top.”
Shifting his gaze away from her, Paden reluctantly acknowledged that he hadn’t even formulated a plan when he saw Rosalie go out the window and hoist herself up onto the roof of the stagecoach. A thought occurred to him. Did it bother him more that she was quicker on her feet than he was, or that she put herself at greater risk by riding up top?
He shoved the skirt toward her. “You should put this back on.”
“Why?” she asked, accepting the skirt and holding it close to her body.
The sheriff’s voice broke through their personal interlude. “I don’t have all day!” he shouted from the doorway of his office.
Paden placed his hand out, indicating she should go first. He saw her press her lips together as she walked ahead of him toward the sheriff’s office. He should never have yelled at her. It wasn’t fair of him to treat her that way. But he couldn’t seem to make sense of his wife. Growing up, she had always carefully considered both sides of an argument before making an informed decision. She had never just reacted. That was not his Rosie. She was cool, methodical… not wild and reckless. What had happened?
Rosalie was already seated when he stepped into the sheriff’s office. The sheriff was sitting behind his desk,
