Page 65 of Willing to Wed the Rancher
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Franz gripped the seat of the stagecoach to keep himself from throwing open the door and making the driver stop.
He hadn’t wanted to get on board. He hadn’t wanted to leave town. He hadn’t wanted to go anywhere except back to Clarabelle.
On the seat on either side of him, Dieter and Bianca were enjoying every moment of the ride, peering out the windows and watching the scenery passing by. The somberness from leaving Clarabelle and from their stop at the cemetery had lessened with the excitement of the new adventure.
If only he could find any joy or excitement at the prospect of what lay ahead. But with every mile that came between him and Clarabelle, his muscles tightened with the need to put a stop to the conveyance.
Not only did he hate leaving her behind, but he also hated that she would have to face the rumors about their relationship by herself. That her good name in the community might possibly be ruined because of him. His only hope was that, with time, people would forget about him and realize Clarabelle was as sweet as always.
He shouldn’t have left the burdens to fall on her shoulders, shouldn’t have left at all.
But he’d already convinced himself numerous times over the past two hours that he had to let her go, that he could only be with her if she were willing to be with him in return. Andalthough he wanted to go back and try again to convince her to be with him, what good would it do?
She wasn’t ready to be his—might never be.
If only he’d had more time to win her heart...
He released a long, exasperated sigh, which drew the attention of the older man sitting across from him and reading a newspaper. Another fellow reclined on the opposite bench too, but he’d appeared slightly hungover when stepping up into the coach earlier, and now he was sleeping with his head resting against the side, his mouth open and emitting obnoxious snores.
Franz didn’t know how anyone could possibly get a moment of rest with all the jostling. He never had learned how to manage the feat—not during his traveling back home or here in America.
A part of him had been scrambling to find a way that he could stay in Colorado. He’d gone over all the options, but every time he did, he came back to the same conclusion. He had too many responsibilities awaiting him at home, and he couldn’t just walk away from everything. At least, not without first managing his financial matters, his homes, and officially resigning from the university.
Then there was the matter of his and the children’s safety. By now Mr. Bliss would likely have raided the counterfeit printing press at the back of the assayer’s office and hopefully arrested Mr. Grover.
Franz had given Mr. Bliss his home address and asked him to apprise him of how things went. He could only hope that Mr. Bliss would be able to eventually discover who’d murdered Eric and prosecute him. At the very least, he’d asked Mr. Bliss to telegram an update to his hotel in Denver, the place he’d stayed before and planned to stay again.
Even as all the rational reasons for leaving clamored through his mind, his heart demanded that he cast them all aside and return to Clarabelle. She’d become the sole reason he had forwaking up in the morning, the sole reason for taking each breath throughout his day, the sole reason for thinking about his future.
Without her . . . what did he have?
Bianca bumped against him as the stagecoach rounded a bend in the winding road up Boreas Pass. She turned and peered up at him, then she slipped her hand into his. “It’ll be okay, Uncle Franz.”
Clearly, she sensed his distress and was doing her five-year-old best to comfort him. But nothing could ease his heartache.
Even so, he bent and kissed the top of her head. He had the children. They needed him, and he couldn’t forget that.
At the sound of shouting from behind the stagecoach, Franz lifted a hand to the hard outline of his revolver underneath his shirt. The older man across from him lowered his newspaper and cast an anxious glance out the window.
Franz knew it would do no good to look out. In fact, it might invite more danger, especially if someone was trying to catch him. Although he’d learned marksmanship as a boy, he’d only ever used guns in hunting, never to shoot another human being.
The shouting behind the stagecoach intensified. And then a gunshot rang out. “Stop the stagecoach!” This time the call was clear.
As the vehicle began to slow, Franz’s blood turned cold, and he withdrew his gun.
The children were now plastered against the seat, the smiles gone and replaced with worry. The older man with the newspaper was watching him, too, while the sleeping fellow continued to snore.
The stagecoach finally came to a halt, and Franz tensed. Something told him that the person was there for him.
“Franz Meyer?” came a man’s call from behind.
Yes, he was right. He’d hoped to get far away without any confrontations, but that was apparently not to be his luck.
“Is Franz Meyer there?” The question came again, more forcefully.
Franz shifted forward on the seat and moved toward the door. He couldn’t sit inside like a coward. He may as well face whomever it was with courage and determination—perhaps even hand himself over to keep everyone else safe.
