Lakeisha Heeringa
The phrase “this is a hold-up” seemed a bit superfluous for the situation. When a stagecoach is stopped by six masked and armed men, there really is no doubt what is going on. But Nick Aubrey, dressed in black from bandana to boots, was always the flamboyant type. As the leader of our band of malefactors, he was determined to elevate our group from the $250 rewards posters to the $500 club. Maybe that was why he invited me along. A disreputable gambler with a name like Jack Diamond is always good for an extra headline.
The driver of the stagecoach glared at us while he tried to keep his skittish team under control. Next to him on the high seat, the guard did as he had been told, unloading his gun before tossing down the money box. Laramie Kid was about to pick up the box when a feminine shriek sounded from behind the canvas curtain on the stage window. We recoiled in surprise. We had chosen this stagecoach because it was supposed to be carrying payroll, no passengers.
Shorty jerked the door open. Out tumbled a frightened mess of burgundy traveling dress and mussed brown hair. The young woman righted herself, staring in horror as she clutched a book like a shield. I pulled my bandana higher over my nose.
“Who are you?” Nick growled.
“H…Heather March. I’m a schoolteacher.”
She hadn’t been a schoolteacher when I saw her two months ago in Denver. “Adelaide Adams, Singer of Love Songs and Ballads” had been the title on the playbill she had autographed with a heart after our one overcooked steak dinner. Then again, I never told her my profession.
I glanced at Nick. Usually, after a robbery, he hog-tied the driver and guard, threw them inside the stage, and turned the horses loose. Would he change the plan now that a woman was involved?
Miss Heather gasped and pleaded, growing paler with each second. Suddenly, in a very ladylike fashion, she sank to the ground in a dead faint.
“You can’t just leave her like that,” the driver said. “Have some mercy.”
Laramie Kid, innocent to the ways of the female constitution, looked askance. “Is she dead?”
Nick ignored him. “Diamond, you and Shorty carry her over to those trees. If we hurry, we can be on our way before she revives.”
I dismounted my horse as Nick continued to call out instructions to his men. Charlie and Rancid Randy pulled rope from their saddlebags, ready to tie our two male prisoners.
“Here, I’ll take her head, you take her feet,” Shorty said, sliding his hands behind the lady’s shoulders. She was pretty as she lay there, brown curls fluttering over her pale skin, still holding her book like she was laid out in a coffin with a Bible. She was a deadweight all right.
“Gentle,” I groaned, trying not to stagger.
Shorty gritted his teeth as he hoisted her, his Stetson slipping over his nose.
I lost hold of one foot in the fluff of petticoats and almost dropped the other. “This isn’t working,” I said. We eased her to the ground. “See if you can lift her from the side. I’ll get a blanket. Maybe we can roll her in it so she’s not so. . . floppy.”
I leaned inside the stagecoach, looking for a piece of canvas or a blanket or a winch.
And then Shorty yelped.
I whirled around, hand instantly on my gun, but I didn’t draw.
Miss Heather March, schoolteacher, had Shorty around the neck, a small revolver pointed at his head. She looked quite recovered from her fainting spell.
“Nobody touch their gun.” Her words were cold and precise.
We all glanced toward Nick, but Miss Heather was the dealer now. “This isn’t a derringer. I’ve got six shots and there are six of you.”
There was no chance she could shoot all six of us, but no one wanted to wager he’d be the one to walk away without lead poisoning.
“Driver, guard, take their guns,” Miss Heather ordered.
“Not so fast, lady,” Nick said. His horse shied. In a flash, his gun was drawn, cocked, and aimed at the driver. “Shorty means nothing to me. How much does your driver mean to you?”
Miss Heather’s eyes narrowed as she weighed the stakes.
Nick would shoot. I knew him enough to know when he was bluffing and when he wasn’t. The singing schoolteacher? I wasn’t sure, but I wanted to know more about her than one dinner date.
We froze, waiting for the roulette wheel to stop.
Red?
Black?
Hoofbeats?
A winning gleam danced in Miss Heather’s eyes. “That’ll be Sheriff Hancock and his posse.”
She played a good game, but Nick was a bad loser. I read his intention as my gun found my hand. Instinct took over in a fog of gunsmoke. Nick toppled from his horse and I wheeled on Rancid Randy and Charlie. They both reached for the sky.
I pulled my bandana down as the sheriff and his band of armed men rode into the clearing. Miss Heather pushed Shorty aside, staring at me in surprise.
I retrieved her book from the ground. “Emma, by Jane Austen” was emblazoned on the cover. The book felt light in my hands. I flipped it open to reveal a space hollowed in the pages, perfect for the revolver she held.
I handed her the book with a gallant bow. “Jack Diamond, former Pinkerton detective, at your service,” I said.
She smiled, merriment dancing in her eyes as she took the proffered book.
“Miss Heather, I am shocked. As a schoolboy, I was seriously reprimanded for defacing a book such as this.”
She slipped the gun inside the book and pressed the cover down.
“I never liked Emma,” she said. “Not enough adventure and villains.”
She winked and turned to go, confident in all of her winnings.
“And the name is Miss Caroline Nicolet, current Pinkerton detective.”
Lakeisha is a member of the American Christian Fiction Writers Association and serves on the board of her local chapter. She is an alumna of the Writers Police Academy, a three-time finalist in the ACFW VA Crown Awards, and is currently working on her debut novel, a rural Wisconsin mystery.
When not writing, Lakeisha is very active in music, serving as a concertmaster, church musician, middle school music teacher, and private music teacher. Any non-existent spare time is filled with hunting, fishing, hiking, baking, and, of course, reading.
Connect with Lakeisha on Facebook, Instagram, or Goodreads.
Spark Flash Fiction 