Dodging Bullets (Book 2) (The Rescue Series)

By Wayne Tripp

Set in the final years of the 19th century beneath a blazing Indian sun, American Jack Wilde and penny dreadful writer, Kitty O’Keefe are in love. The trouble is, Kitty has just learned something about the handsome cavalry sergeant she loves that threatens to ruin everything. How can their budding romance go on, now that she knows the horrible secret Jack’s been keeping from her? To make matters worse, he’s busy Dodging Bullets and rescuing someone else while her newspaper has just given her an assignment in the distant native kingdom of Malahpur. What’s a girl to do when her hero isn’t around?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wayne Tripp
• Release date: Jan 27, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311613448

Wayne Tripp

Author Wayne Tripp lives in New England and therein lies his passion for writing. "Allure of Siren's Song" is his first historical adventure novel. In addition to his writing and his long-time avocation as a skilled SCUBA diver, Wayne enjoys spending time with his beloved wife, other family members, and his adorable Siberian Husky. A strong believer in his childhood notion that love always triumphs, he manages to keep the darkness that threatens to crawl out of his creative closet at bay . . . most of the time. Once in a while, something wicked finds a method to claw its way out, and those are the stories that Wayne Tripp enjoys telling.

Book preview

Chapter One

Mhow, India 1895

Headquarters of the 7th Queen’s Own Hussars

So, you'll board the military train for Karachi at dawn. From there, you'll travel north to Peshawar. Under cover of darkness, you'll sneak into the foothills at the southern end of the Khyber Pass. Wilde's Sikh will act as native scout. Alright, gentlemen, you have your duties. Tomorrow then, I'll expect you to have your men saddled, provisioned, and ready to ride by first light. Any questions?

Jack waited a second for Lt. Richardson to shoot him the usual nervous glance for assistance, before answering Lieutenant-Colonel Paget for his inexperienced superior. No, sir. We'll do our duty, and pluck these troublemakers out of the mob before anyone realizes they've let wolves into the henhouse.

"Ah, Wilde, another of your delightful American witticisms. Over here, it's foxes in the henhouse."

Foxes don't come as well-armed as we . . . wolves . . . sir.

Ah, yes. This constant putting out of rebellious fires does get damnably irritating. You'd think by 1895, the damned Wogs would've figured out we're here to stay and cease brewing these ridiculous tempests in teapots. Oh well, as long as the empire has enemies, the army serves a purpose, gentlemen, and we all fill an important need. We have purpose. Remember those poor surviving bastards who lived through the charge of the Light Brigade in fifty-four. Damned ungrateful nation couldn’t forget them fast enough after the Crimea ended. Well, gentlemen, enough bemoaning a soldier’s unhappy lot. You have your orders; I suppose that'll be all. Dismissed. Colonel Paget turned away, examining some papers on his huge teakwood desk, playing with his spotted terrier as he waited for his junior officer and pet American to leave. At the last second, he spied the small clutch of letters his aide had put in the center of his desk just before the meeting.

Ah—Sgt. Wilde! A moment, if you please!

Jack stopped and turned, automatically snapping to attention, as his superior thrust a small packet of letters into his hand.

The letter on top’s been kicking around the country for a good six months, I'm afraid. Doesn’t say much for India’s postal system. One hopes things run better in the Americas.

When Jack realized the top letter was from Bethlem Hospital in London, he answered without his usual guarded caution. Not so long ago, we had the pony express carrying mail cross-country out west. Sometimes delivery tended to be rather dodgy.

Ah, yes—I’ve heard of that. Pursued by wild red Indians, no doubt. Seeming to realize Jack was only half-listening, Lieutenant Colonel Harold Paget paused and took several puffs of his Cuban cigar and patted his small spotted terrier before continuing. "Well, my boy, here we have wild dacoits. I wouldn’t be surprised if those train robbers you disposed of last winter weren’t responsible for the delay in your mail."

Yes, sir, Jack replied by rote, his mind devoured by dread as he wondered what the letter from Bedlam contained. Good thing we stopped them, sir.

"You stopped them, lad. You. Almost single-handedly, I might add. Jolly good show. Make a success of this mission, keep your people safe, and I’ll see to your advance, my lad."

Thank you, sir.

Poppycock! I know whose broad shoulders the success of this special squad really sit on. Do well, my boy—I’ll see you obtain a lieutenancy yet.

Chapter Two

Miss. Miss O'Keefe—do wake up, please. We've arrived, dearie.

Kitty roused herself from a particularly steamy dream in the arms of Jack Wilde, and groggily looked up at O'Hara's concerned face. W-where? Where are we?

Train terminal, Miss. In Bombay. We're here! As if sensing her traveling companion wasn't totally in the real world yet, Maud O'Hara let the joviality drain from her voice and pasted on her concerned motherly demeanor. I let you sleep, Miss. You looked so hot and uncomfortable. No way for a proper lady to travel, if you don't mind my saying so. Maud chewed her lip as if waiting for her still sleepy employer to take it all in. I took the liberty of having the luggage and yer pets loaded on a hired rig. There's another for you and me to travel in some comfort. It's a wee smidge cooler outside too, Miss. Just a smidge.

Acutely aware that her traveling clothes were drenched in sweat and quite rumpled, Kitty rose on wobbly legs to leave the railway carriage. It was beastly hot! Her flowery dress clung to her body like wet rags. She must look quite a fright.

Letting O'Hara steady her as they walked the short distance to the waiting carriages, at first Kitty was totally unaware of heads turning in the wake of her swishing skirts.

Bombay's train terminal was full of bustling passengers, many of them Her Majesty’s soldiers, and all of those male. Kitty blushed as she walked along, embarrassed when so many young gentlemens' faces smiled at her, and turned to follow her every move.

Pausing briefly at the hired wagon carrying her two furry companions, she cooed endearments and scratched playful Squeak for a few moments before moving on to her own carriage, totally unaware that while she fawned over one monkey, his companion in crime, Bubble, was deftly wheedling the still unopened letter out of her grasp.

I've given the drivers our new address, Miss, and sent word ahead to 18 Gladstone Square that we've arrived and will be there shortly. Maud paused again, waiting while her mistress was handed up into the waiting open carriage and she'd hoisted herself into a seat opposite. Once comfortably seated, she leant forward, grasping each of Kitty's gloved hands.

I took the liberty, Miss, of sending word to yer young man's cantonment. The 7th's headquartered with most of the other troops up in Mhow, but I've heard your young gentleman's group is billeted here in Bombay. All very hush-hush, but i have my ways of finding things out.

T-thank you, Maud. . . I think.

I know you wanted to surprise him, but I felt he should know you're here. It's only proper. My Bert—well, them soldier boys don't like surprises, Miss.

Yes, well it's done then, isn’t it? Kitty replied, still struggling to deal with the oppressive heat, and quite unable to keep a slight taint of irritation out of her voice. T-thank you, Maud.

* * * *

Standing out of the way as the hired native workmen and O'Hara bustled about moving her into her newly leased house, Kitty was not only the one closest to the entryway, but also the only one with nothing to do when two bold knocks thudded into the front door.

Perhaps for the third or fourth time in her adult life, Kitty opened her own front door. A young major in an unfamiliar uniform stood at ease just outside the front door of 18 Gladstone Square, an all too-familiar envelope clasped in his spotless white glove.

The observant newswoman in Kitty immediately took in the stylish, well-waxed brown moustache glued to a pale face with precisely-trimmed hair already deserting the top of his shiny dome. Watery blue eyes, too small and close together twinkled at her expectantly, separated by a fine patrician nose, its nostrils covered with broken blood vessels, a sure sign of over-indulgent drinking. Full, almost femininely-shaped lips twisted in a decidedly self-important sneer, above a chin rapidly disappearing into a well-tailored, bright yellow uniform collar loaded with extravagant gilt trim.

Miss O'Keefe? Miss Katherine O'Keefe? I believe this correspondence belongs to you, he said, thrusting the wrinkled envelope into her quivering hand.

Kitty was not so naive as to believe the major just happened to follow her all the way from the train station to return a rumpled letter. Most likely he'd seen her passage from train to carriage and decided to seize the moment, follow her home, and try his luck. How had he gotten Hiram’s letter? Where had she dropped it? What did he want? Perhaps he was a brazen masher. She mustn't say anything that might be construed as encouragement. Thank him and send him on his way.

Thank you, sir, she replied coolly, taking the letter and placing it on the Burmese mahogany calling-card table. Luckily, the workmen had just put the elephant-shaped table richly decorated with mother of pearl in the hallway.

Major Byron Colbert Pilkington, Ma'am. At your service. If there's any other way I may be of service—

Well, actually, Major, I'm expecting my fiancée any moment, Kitty said, praying her face displayed sweet innocence. He's in the army too—perhaps you know him? Sergeant Jack Wilde of the 7th Queen's Own Hussars?

" The 7th's stationed up in Mhow—oh, you mean the special group. Sheer poppycock if you ask me. Finally, Kitty's words began to sink in and he realized the warning he'd just heard. Fiancée. Cavalry bloke. Sergeant, you say? Byron said with an unguarded sneer. Good Lord, that's most unfortunate. There's no unwashed rank and file allowed here, Miss O'Keefe. This square—these precious homes—this is officer country, my good woman. Someone should've mentioned that before they let you lease the property. Your man show's his face here, he'll likely be shot, or at the very least, brought up on charges. Good day to you!"

As if insulted that he'd been forced to waste his time on a common woman, no matter how pretty her face or delightful her figure, the major marched away indignantly, his angry flight more of a rout than an orderly retreat. Behind him, Kitty crossed her arms beneath her breasts, instantly aware of her constricting corset, yet satisfied that she'd at least been able to put one unwanted bounder in his place. Oh Jack; if only you were here. Closing the door, she walked deeper into her new home, hoping to be of some use, totally forgetting the envelope on the small card table.

* * * *

Had Miss O'Keefe known the truth of how he'd gotten the letter, she probably would've been quite upset. The major had observed the little monkey plucking the envelope from its unsuspecting mistress's grasp. When he'd approached and tried to pry the letter from the obnoxious little beast's clasping fingers, it had tried to bite him, refusing to let go. A sharp rap across its knuckles with stout hickory wood hadn’t worked; it was only when he poked the little Blighter in the face with the end of his officer's baton that the hairy bugger let go of the envelope. And all for nothing. The pretty tart was freely giving herself to some lowly sergeant. In the cavalry, no less. What a bloody waste. Well, no bother. Byron let his full lips curl upward in a nasty smile. He might be a mere major in the Army Pay Corps, but he had friends. He had friends in very high places.

* * * *

Couldn't she do anything right? ‘Officer Country’ only—dear god, she hadn't realized that when she'd signed the lease. Well, she'd just have to go see Jack herself then; find a common meeting ground. She wouldn’t see him endangering himself every time he came courting.

She lay in the main withdrawing room, lounging on her plush, but uncomfortable fainting couch, her soiled traveling dress and corset long removed. Clad only in a partly buttoned white nightdress, she tried to ignore the pained chirps and cries coming from the kitchen where O'Hara and the newly-hired Hindu parlormaid administered first aid to poor Bubble's black eye. Who would do such a thing to a poor defenseless pet? Feeling less than useless in the situation, she'd fled from the room, and now lay pouting as she twirled the battered envelope from Hiram once again.

Open the damned thing!

As her slender fingers ceased their trembling and tore the envelope open, she frowned, realizing her long awaited day had already gone to hell. How could Hiram's venomous letter make it worse? She'd leased a house in an area her lover was forbidden to approach, some unknown assailant had abused one of her monkeys, and though he'd been notified of her arrival, Jack hadn’t come. He hadn't even acknowledged he'd gotten the message.

Open the damned letter!

Addressed to Ivy O'Hara, Maud's deceased sister, Hiram Jenkins's message was brief. He'd discovered the American, Jack Wilde, was a fugitive. Suspected of murdering an American senator's son aboard some ship, no less. Old news. She’d known that. Jack had told her. It was the second revelation that caused her to cry out in agony louder than little wounded Bubble, and prove the fainting couch was well-named.

No! Oh dear God—No!

Jack was married!

Chapter Three

Jack shoved the folded letter into the breast pocket of his khaki tunic and forgot about it. If it was from Bethlem Hospital, it concerned Lavinia, and if it concerned Lavinia, it was never good news. He had more pressing concerns; a woman whom he really cared about, for one. Why had she followed him here? She loves you, you dunder-head! Then, by President Cleveland’s moustache, why had she rented a house in the officers’ sacred zone? His British comrades would be quick to point out they’d been opposed to slavery long before the American Civil War. It had been their navy that pursued and stopped American slavers leaving the West African coast with a hold full of living misery. Yet, in their colonies around the world, no one showed more racial prejudice than the typical British military or government official. Even in the army itself: the British troops looked down their noses at the Indian army; the infantry belittled the merits of the cavalry, and pompous officers habitually sneered at the rank and file beneath them as though they were crude, filthy dogs.

Jack, an American and part of an unconventional, spanking-new hit and run squad, sneered right back. For whatever reason, his woman, his heart’s desire, had chosen to reside in the center of officer country. So under the cover of darkness, he’d penetrated this forbidden, oh-so- sacred zone, and was now within a pebble’s throw of Kitty’s back door.

There were gaslights on in the kitchen and pantry; as Jack glided up to the door, he spied O’Hara bustling about the stove, apparently brewing tea while she scolded Kitty’s two monkeys. One of the two, Bubble, judging by her pinafore, was sporting a bandage over one eye. What the hell had happened? Jack rapped quietly on the back door, squatting in the shadows and watching until he was certain O’Hara had heard him. When she approached and opened the door a crack, he rose and stepped into the flickering gaslight.

"You! scolded O’Hara. What in bloody blazes are yer doing here, sergeant?"

Hello to you too, Maud. I’ve come to see Kitty, of course.

Well, me boyo, just now I’m guessing yer about the last bugger on earth she’d care to see!

Why, Maud—what’s happened? Why’s Bubble injured?

O’Hara—who is it? What’s happening? A familiar voice, sounding weak and strained drifted in out of the shadowy gloom; followed in seconds by the disheveled, bare-foot woman who possessed Jack’s heart. "Maud, what’s going on—Jack—why are you here?"

To see you. I received word you'd come to Bombay against my advice. What the hell has happened? Why are you— He paused, partly because he was disturbed by her uncharacteristic, state of careless undress, but mostly because the tearful glare she shot his way was not one of love. Quite the opposite. Trying not to stare at her semi-bared breasts, he found himself fumbling for words. Kitty spared him the effort.

You’re married! You’re no gentleman—just a crude, heartless brute—letting me fall in love with you; stealing my heart, and knowing all the while you already had a wife! How could you be so cruel, Jack Wilde?

Kitty—I can explain. Please, let me in!

"I let you into my bed—I let you into my heart! If it was just lust you wanted, why didn’t you get a Bibi street woman—or Dr. Kurapati? She seemed more than willing!"

"You should leave now, Sergeant, before I call the constables