Page 8 of Wild Spirit Revival

As shots rang out, Molly and the other passengers scrambled for cover. Her heart pounded as they crouched behind a large boulder, the sounds of the skirmish echoing around them.

“What do we do now?” Mary’s father asked, his voice laced with fear.

Molly peered around the rock, seeing one outlaw on the ground and the stagecoach driver slumped in his seat. “We need to get help…”

She trailed off as she spotted something in the distance. A cloud of dust moving rapidly toward them. Help, or more trouble?

As the riders drew closer, Molly’s eyes widened. If she weren’t mistaken, leading the group was a familiar face. The very man she’d hoped to avoid.

The stranger from Bozeman thundered toward them, leading a group of riders. As they approached, Molly could make out his features. He had the same rugged jawline and piercing eyes as the man at the train station.

“Stay down!” His voice carried over the chaos.

Molly watched, torn between relief and frustration, as the newcomers engaged the bandits. The air filled with gunshots and shouts, dust swirling around the scene.

The man from Bozeman may become her unlikely savior.

“Who is that man?” Mary’s mother whispered, clutching her daughter close.

Molly shook her head, her eyes never leaving the action. “Someone I’d hoped never to see again,” she muttered.

The skirmish was intense but brief. Within minutes, the outlaws were subdued, their weapons tossed aside as they raised their hands in surrender.

When the dust settled, the stranger dismounted and strode toward their hiding spot. Molly steeled herself, stepping out from behind the boulder.

“Figure the odds,” he drawled, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “Seems like trouble follows you, Miss…?”

“Molly,” she replied curtly. “Molly O’Sullivan. And I had everything under control.”

He raised an eyebrow, his gaze sweeping over the stagecoach guard and the shaken passengers. “Clearly.”

Before she could retort, Mary tugged at her skirt. “Miss Molly, are we safe now?”

Molly softened, kneeling down to the child’s level. “Yes, Mary. We’re safe now.”

The stranger’s expression changed, a flicker of something crossing his face. He held out his hand to a short, portly male passenger.

“Name’s Elijah Beckett.”

“Gus Thornton.” He mopped his forehead with a handkerchief before stuffing it into a pocket.

“I’m Michael Crane,” Mary’s father said, shaking Elijah’s hand. “This is my wife, Marla, and daughter, Mary. I don’t know how to thank you, Mr. Beckett. You saved all of us.”

“No thanks necessary.” Elijah looked back at the stage. “It appears you folks could use a ride into town. One of us will sit up top and drive the stage. Let’s get you back in the coach.”

As the passengers gathered their scattered belongings, Molly found herself stealing glances at Elijah. There was something about him. To her disgust, she found herself both intrigued and annoyed.

Chapter Four

The stagecoach rumbled to a halt in front of Mystic’s stagecoach station, its wooden wheels creaking in protest. Molly O’Sullivan exhaled, her shoulders sagging with relief as she peered out at the town. The harrowing journey, marred by the attempted robbery, had left her both exhilarated and exhausted.

“We made it,” she murmured, more to herself than to her fellow passengers.

Gus Thornton, seated next to her, chuckled. “Yes, we did. We have those Beckett boys to thank for arriving alive.”

Molly’s eyes narrowed at the mention of the Becketts. Elijah’s manner during their second encounter grated on her.

“I suppose,” she replied curtly, glancing outside.

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