Page 158 of New Storm Rising
Still, what I’d said earlier was quite correct. Shooting people really was amazingly relaxing. I should do it more often. Why, even though we were sitting in a carriage, I didn’t even feel sick at the mome—
Suddenly, my stomach lurched.
Oh no. No, no, nononono—
I leapt towards the window.
“Blurgh! Bleearghargargh!”
Well, look on the bright side, Lilly: at least the populace of the United States is safe from being shot by feminist invaders from England.
Right now, that didn’t seem like much of a consolation. It was quite a long time before I dragged myself back into the coach.
“Look at it this way,” Mr Ambrose told me, cocking his head. “With the…projectiles you are currently firing, we are quite unlikely to be pursued.”
I gave him a weak smile. “Thanks for the pep talk.”
“Hm.” He gave me a look that told me he was not in the habit of doing something as frivolous as talking, particularly of the pep variety.
Except for me, apparently.
I smiled even wider—then yawned, as exhaustion overtook me. Putting away my revolver and ammunition, I leaned back against the—regrettably not very soft—backrest, trying my best to keep my eyes open. It had been a long day. Or…I glanced out of the window into the shadowy landscape racing by. Was it night by now? I certainly felt like it.
“Mrs Ambrose?” A gentle hand came to rest on my shoulder. Odd…who could that be? It couldn’t be Mr Ambrose, right?
“Hm…?” My eyelids fluttered open. Hey…how had they fallen shut? I hadn’t even noticed.
“Rest, wife. I’ll keep watch. Only…”
“Yes?” I murmured.
“How many more bullets did you bring?”
“Hm…few hundred.” Blinking, I glanced his way, only now noticing that he was staring out of the window, back to where we’d left behind the desperados. “Why?”
“I have a feeling we’re going to need them.”
***
When I awoke once more, the sun was shining, the birds were singing and I was about to puke again. Shoving my husband out of the way, I lunged for the window.
“Bluurgh!”
Panting, I glanced up at the birds I’d heard earlier. The vultures croaked and gave me a “Hello there, delicious dessert”-kind of look.
Hey, I never said it wasprettybirds that were singing, or that their song was particularly melodious.
“And what,” Mr Ambrose enquired as I pulled myself back into the carriage, “would you have done if my men had been riding behind the carriage, instead of in front of it?”
“Err…then they would have gotten a fragrant surprise in the face?”
“Never change, Mrs Ambrose. Never change.”
“I most certainly don’t intend to!” Puffing out my chest, I glanced around. “So, how are things going?”
“Adequately.” Mr Ambrose’s eyes narrowed infinitesimally. “A littletooadequately, actually. Things have been quiet for nearly twelve hours. Not a single sign of the desperados.”
My newly developed wife-sense tingled. “You think they’re up to something?”
