The Bounty Hunter’s Redemption

* * *

Nate strode out, the widow’s sarcasm in the “sir” and the slamming door behind him ringing in his ears. He’d let his temper get the best of him. Still, the widow had all but called him a liar and had pointed that dainty finger at him like a gunslinger taking aim.

He unwound the reins from the hitching post, swung into the saddle and rode toward the livery he’d seen earlier. Each clop of Maverick’s hooves thudded against his conscience. Why should the widow trust his word? He’d killed her husband. Claimed he had a deed he hadn’t produced. When he came back with that deed, she’d fight him tooth and nail. Carly Richards wasn’t a woman to take things lying down. No doubt life with that scoundrel of a husband had made her hard, tough.

If a husband’s property belonged to his wife as much as to him, a judge might rule Richards had no right to gamble away shared property. But from what Nate had seen, even if that property belonged to his wife, a husband had the authority to do with marital assets as he saw fit.

Once Carly Richards realized Nate had no intention of backing down, she’d give up the fight.

Where would she and the boy live then? How would she earn an income? Who would look after them?

Nate clamped his jaw. He couldn’t get soft about the widow’s plight. Anna had no other means to make a living. Carly Richards was able-bodied; a good housekeeper and cook from the tidy appearance of her shop and the robust look of her son. Surely she had numerous skills to find another job in Gnaw Bone. Perhaps she had family nearby.

He had to focus on his sister, the one person he owed everything. Anna was depending on him to make things right, which he would do.

Then he’d settle the score with Shifty Stogsdill, the outlaw he hunted.

At the thought of hitting the trail, Nate’s stomach twisted. He wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but he was tired. Tired of huddling near a campfire and eating lousy food. Tired of sleeping under the stars on the hard, cold ground. Tired of endless hours in the saddle chasing lawless, brutal men.

As weary as he was of his life, he was a skilled bounty hunter. Bringing Stogsdill to justice would silence his loved ones calling to him from the grave.

The reward money, along with the proceeds from the shop, would set Anna up for life. Then he would have kept his promise to his parents and repaid his debt to his sister. No amount of money would compensate for the handicap she would live with her entire life.

Stogsdill’s trail had gone cold, but rumor had it the outlaw was sweet on a woman living in the area. The reason Nate had ridden this way, planning to bunk with Anna and Walt while investigating the rumor.

If only he’d arrived four hours earlier, he might have saved Walt’s life. One more if-only Nate couldn’t fix. A long list of regrets that plagued him.

But he could move his sister to Gnaw Bone. It meant hiring a wagon to haul her possessions. Not all that many, certainly nothing of material value, but she’d never leave family keepsakes behind.

Outside the livery Nate looped Maverick’s reins to the rail. A hand-painted for-sale sign caught his eye. If the lettering over the doors meant anything, how did the proprietor, Morris Mood, hope to sell this run-down property?

Hmm, the small print indicated the sale included a vacant house. If it was habitable, perhaps Nate could work out a deal with the owner. Now that he’d met the pretty widow and her small son, he couldn’t stomach the idea of evicting them from their home.

Inside the stable, he inhaled the scent of hay, leather and manure; heard the soft whinnying of horses, easing the tension in his neck and zipping him back to the time he’d wrangled horses on a Texas ranch. The pay had been lousy. Not nearly enough money to provide for Anna, but that year had taught him plenty about horses.

Maybe, just maybe, he could do this: run a livery and settle in one place. He tamped down the silly notion. He was not good at staying put, but he was good at his job.

Still, with Walt dead, Anna had no one to look after her but him. He couldn’t ride off as he’d done many times before, leaving his sister behind with the hope his inept brother-in-law would make a decent living. This time he had to stay long enough to see Anna find her place in the community. Once she was settled in the rooms behind the seamstress shop, he’d be on his way.

He strolled down the aisle between the stalls, studying the horses. Unlike the dilapidated barn, the animals looked healthy, their coats groomed, their bedding clean, water buckets full. Clearly the owner cared about his horses.

Nate passed the tack room, then stopped outside the door leading into the office. A stoop-shouldered man with grizzled hair hunched over a ledger, his spectacles sliding down his nose. A broken bit and two shabby halters lay scattered on the desk, alongside a tattered saddle cinch and a rusty horseshoe. The owner and his office looked as frayed as his business.

“Mr. Mood?”

With a startled squeak, the elderly gentleman jerked up his head and then staggered to his feet, his face tinged with pink. “Didn’t know anyone was about. Need a horse? Rig?”

“A wagon.” He motioned toward the entrance. “And information about that sign out front.”

“You’re new in town.” The old gent tugged at his suspenders. “Looking to buy this place?”

Why would Nate do that? “Nope, don’t have the money. But in exchange for a place to live, I could work here.”

The owner chuckled. “I don’t have the money to pay you a wage, neither. Reckon that makes us even.” He pointed to a bale of straw. “Take the weight off,” he said, plopping into his desk chair with a sigh. “I wouldn’t be looking to sell, exceptin’ my wife needs a dry climate. If I can find a buyer, I’d take Betsy to Arizona. Good weather for consumption.”

“I’m sorry your wife’s sick.” Nate sat, his gaze roaming his surroundings. “I could restore the place. Make the livery more attractive to a buyer.”

“I can’t keep up with repairs. Reckon it’s as run-down as I am.” He drummed knobby fingers on the desk. “All that hammering and sawing could spook my horses. You know how to handle ’em?”

“I spent a year as wrangler on a spread in Texas.”

“That don’t mean you’ll treat ’em right.”

“I’d never mistreat a horse—any animal.”

Yet only minutes before, Nate had mistreated a woman. The truth of that gnawed at him. No matter how tough she’d tried to appear, he’d seen the fear beneath Mrs. Richards’s bluster. She’d reminded him of an abused horse, alert and skittish, ready to rear and kick, expecting trouble, prepared for battle. His stomach clenched. Had Richards abused his wife?

“I’ll tell you what,” Mr. Mood said. “I could use the help, but as I said, I can’t afford to pay a wage. What if I applied what you should earn toward buying the place?” He pointed over his shoulder. “And throw in the living quarters behind the livery? Me and the missus live a few miles out now, so the house sits empty. Has two bedrooms, kitchen, small parlor—nothing fancy but it’s livable and furnished.”

“I’m not interested in buying the livery, but I’m moving my sister to Gnaw Bone. We’ll need a place to bunk.” His gaze roamed the cobwebbed corners, the glass in the window caked with dirt. “Anna is, uh, persnickety.”

“The house is in better condition than the stable. I’ll spiff the place up, if that’s what’s worrying you.”

Mood’s plan didn’t fence Nate in. He could make improvements until the judge settled the shop ownership. Nate offered his hand. “I’m willing to try each other out, see if the arrangement fits.”

The old codger reached a blue-veined hand and shook, his grip surprisingly strong. “Gives us both time. You might like working here and change your mind.” He gave a nod. “If I like you, trust you with my horses, you could finish buying the livery on contract, a set amount each month.”

Nate wouldn’t be changing his mind. He had no interest in staying in this two-bit town tethered to a livery and half a dozen horses. Nate had spent much of his adult life wandering. He had no idea how to handle that kind of permanence. The one time he’d tried to settle down had ended in disaster. A moving target was safer for everyone.

Nate paid the rate for a wagon and team. “I’ll return the rig tomorrow,” he said, following Mood toward the stalls.

Anna wanted him nearby. Nate would give her that for now. He had enough money to ignore the wanted posters in his saddlebags. If the circuit judge ruled in Anna’s favor, as Nate expected, she’d have a solid income to handle her bills. Then he would leave the good folks of Gnaw Bone before Stogsdill came looking for revenge and someone got hurt.

Mood tramped toward him, leading two draft horses. Nate joined him and they moseyed to the open end of the livery where a wagon waited, its green paint peeling. While in Gnaw Bone, Nate would scrape and repaint that wagon.

Perhaps if he kept busy enough, he could hold memories at bay.

A yellow, shaggy dog crawled out from under the wagon, his tail giving a slow wag.

Mood reached a hand. The dog stepped into his touch. “She’s got me pegged as a softy.” He raised the dog’s chin. “Soon as I get this team hitched, I’ll share my lunch. But I’ll be moving West, too far a trip for you.” Mood glanced over his shoulder at Nate. “She’d make a fine watchdog, if you’ve a mind to keep her.”

The mutt couldn’t harm a flea. “I’ll be moving on, too.”

“She’d be good company for your sister.”

A dog underfoot might trip Anna. Mood would see that soon enough.

With slow, patient motions and gentle words to the horses, the old man hitched the team to the wagon. “This here is Mark. The other is Matthew. Named ’em after the Gospel writers. Feed, water and rub them down tonight.”

As if Nate hadn’t the faintest idea how to care for horses. “Yes, sir.” Nate tied Maverick to the rear of the wagon. “Once we’re settled in, I’ll start making repairs.”

“Your coming proves the Good Lord is watching over me and Betsy, that’s sure.”

Mood wouldn’t believe Nate was the answer to his prayer if he knew the trouble he was bringing Widow Richards.

With a nod, Nate climbed into the wagon, released the brake, and drove down the alley behind the livery, passing the cabin where he and Anna would live.

Across the alley, what had to be the backside of the seamstress shop, a female dashed out the door and across the yard as if chased by a pack of rabid dogs.

Ah, Mrs. Richards. Where was she going in such an all-fire hurry? She caught sight of him, slowed and dropped her skirts, then strode on, her mouth set in a grim line.

He hauled back on the reins. “Is something wrong?”

She gored him with her gaze. “Perhaps. I’m on my way to speak with Sheriff Truitt. About you.”

“I have nothing to hide.”

“So you say.” She motioned to the wagon. “Glad to see you’re leaving town. Don’t let me hold you up.”

“Only be gone long enough to bring my sister and her possessions back to Gnaw Bone.”

Mrs. Richards’s cheeks paled. “Morris wouldn’t rent you that wagon if he knew your intentions.”

“Mr. Mood has hired me to make improvements to the livery. Anna and I will be staying in his vacant house.”

Chest heaving, she plopped dainty hands on her hips. A female version of David pitted against Goliath. The stones in her sling of the verbal variety. Yet the fire in her eyes made her a formidable foe. She’d stop at nothing to protect her child’s future.

Nate had dealt with violent men, cagey men, the vilest of men, but he had no idea how to handle this tiny woman’s colossal loathing. Of him.

What did she despise him for most? Killing her trigger-happy, back-shooting husband? Or threatening ownership of the shop? Well, he wasn’t here to win anyone’s approval, especially a woman trying to stand in the way of his sister’s new beginning.

“If you think by working and living under my nose, you’ll bully me into giving up what’s rightfully mine, you’re wrong.”

“The judge will decide who’s entitled to the shop. Until then, my sister and I need a place to live.”

“In that case, I suggest you keep your distance.”

She hustled off. A woman on a mission, no doubt hoping Sheriff Truitt would ride him out of town, tarred and feathered.

Well, he had no desire to remain longer than necessary. The life of a bounty hunter suited him. He had two purposes; locking up violent men who preyed on the innocent and seeing Stogsdill pay for his crimes.

“Move on, Mark, Matthew.” As he turned onto Main Street, a strange, unsettling awareness sank to his gut. In the livery, for the first time in ages, he’d felt at home, at peace. The prospect of staying put dredged up a long-buried desire to belong somewhere, filling him with a yearning he didn’t understand.

He shook his head, trying to dislodge the foolish notion. To stay meant settling down, letting others in. The mere idea tightened an invisible band around his neck.

Once he’d been complacent. Had believed he could be a small-town sheriff and have a wife and children. Whenever he got close and cared about others, people got hurt or...died. He’d never again take that risk.

Chapter Three

Carly gave a shove and the door rattled shut behind her. The desk was cluttered with stacks of paper, a pair of shiny handcuffs and a coiled rope, but the office chair sat empty.

“Sheriff Truitt?”

The lawman stepped from the back, a holster riding his hips, a tray in his hand. “Why, howdy, Mrs. Richards.” His gaze landed on the spotless dishes. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say a dog lapped these plates clean. Reckon the Harders brothers appreciated the stew, Miss Sarah’s special today.”

Max used to say food was good at Sarah Harvey’s café, but one look at the cook gave a man heartburn. Max had a jab for every man and woman in town.

“Shore did, Sheriff,” a voice called.

Through the open door, Carly caught sight of the Harders twins peering at her from a cell. Even as they sat side by side on the bunk, Carly couldn’t tell Lloyd and Lester apart from here. The two went everywhere together, getting into one scrape after another. Their latest escapade—using the sign outside her shop for target practice.

“Food’s way better’n Ma’s, but don’t you be telling her I said so, ma’am.”

Carly had tasted Mrs. Harders’s cooking at church potlucks and couldn’t disagree. “I’d never hurt your mother’s feelings.”

“We’re right sorry for shooting up your sign, Miz Richards.”

“Yep, plumb ashamed of ourselves.”

“I sometimes suspect you two get into trouble just to get some decent victuals,” Sheriff Truitt grumbled. “Well, your feet will be under your ma’s table by suppertime.”

“Aw, can’t you keep us another night, Sheriff?”

“This ain’t no hotel. I aim to make your lives so miserable you’ll think twice about another drunken shooting spree.”

The sheriff closed the door to the brothers’ groans and turned toward Carly. “They’ll spend the month doing chores for you, Mrs. Richards. Work ’em hard. The nastier the job the better.”

Carly gave a nod. But had no idea what they could do. The Harders brothers didn’t appear to be good at much except carousing.

“They should pay for a new sign, but money’s scarce and their ma—”

“Sheriff, I’m here on another matter.”

“What’s that?”

Carly met the sheriff’s inquisitive gaze. “That bounty hunter paid me a visit.”

“From the look on your face, I’d say he didn’t come to apologize for killing your husband.”

Anyone who hunted down outlaws for the bounty was surely driven by greed. “Could he have gone after Max for the reward?”

“Nope, no time for Max to make the wanted posters.”

“Well, he’s looking to make money from Max’s death.”

“How so?”

“He claims his sister’s husband—the man Max killed in Kentucky—won the deed to my shop in a poker game. He says his sister has the deed and that makes her the owner.”

The sheriff frowned. “Do you believe him?”

“No! I don’t trust the word of a killer.” Carly sighed. “But I checked. The deed’s not in my safe.”

“Then he could be speaking the truth.”

“Well, yes. But Max could’ve moved the deed.” She paced the room, then turned to the lawman. “Sheriff, I want you to do something. You can’t let some stranger ride into town and take my property,” she said, unable to keep her voice from trembling.

“No need to get worked up, Mrs. Richards. No one is taking anything while I’m around, leastwise not illegally.”

Carly breathed in. Out. In. Out. Until her racing pulse returned to a steady rhythm. “If the bounty hunter has the deed, he could’ve stolen it, even killed Max for it. Max can’t accuse him from the grave.”

“If Max anted the deed and lost—”

“He had no right to risk our livelihood and the roof over our heads!”

“No moral right.” The sheriff rubbed his nape. “Not sure about his legal right.”

“Are you saying I could lose the shop?” Carly shoved each shaky word from her mouth, barely louder than a whisper.

“No point borrowing trouble. Time will tell.”

Easy for the sheriff to say. “I have no legal recourse?”

“If you were asking about horse stealing, I’d know the law. Property rights ain’t my specialty.”

The door to the sheriff’s office opened. Nate Sergeant stood in the opening. Tall, broad-shouldered, a six-shooter strapped to his hip. Even from across the room, Carly could feel the power radiating from him.

He removed his Stetson and gave Carly a nod. “Sheriff, I suppose Mrs. Richards has explained the situation.”

“She has.”

“I’ll be bringing my sister to Gnaw Bone tomorrow, along with the deed to Mrs. Richards’s shop.”

“If you’ve got that deed, I’d like to see it. Better yet, I’d like to keep it here in my safe until the circuit judge can straighten out this mess.”

Nate Sergeant gave a nod. “Any idea when that will be?”

“Depends on the number of cases he’s hearing.”

“Sheriff,” Carly said, “can you check his itinerary?”

“I’ll send a wire and see what I can find out, Mrs. Richards.”

“Thank you.”

Carly said goodbye, then strode toward the exit. Sheriff Truitt had been no help. She heaved a sigh. The sheriff wasn’t the troublemaker in town. That label belonged to Nate Sergeant, the man holding the door for her as she strode through, and then followed her out.

“Mrs. Richards...” he said.

Carly stopped and turned toward him, steeling her spine against whatever he had to say.

His gaze was surprisingly soft, gentle. “I’ve brought harm to way too many. I surely don’t want to hurt you,” he said, his eyes filling with despair so wretched Carly couldn’t look away. “I wish things were different, ma’am.”

Carly had an urge to try to ease his torment, to offer absolution. She reached a tentative hand toward his jaw. Close enough to feel the warmth from his skin.

At the gesture, his pupils flared into smoldering pools of black.

Carly’s breath caught. She jerked her hand away.

Without a word he turned on booted heel, strode to the wagon out front and clamored aboard.

As she watched him drive off, her stomach tumbled. How could she have connected with a man determined to ruin their lives? Nate Sergeant might regret harming her, but that wouldn’t stop this driven man accustomed to getting his way.

Inside her gloves, Carly’s hands chilled. He had appeared confident, as if he’d known the law was on his side and she was destined to lose her shop. If the judge agreed, she’d have to move, start over. Leave everything she’d worked hard to build.

Lord, why did You allow a new threat? Hasn’t my son been through enough? Why?

Well, she would handle this. Henry would be home from school soon. No time to search. After she tucked him in tonight, she’d look for that deed, proving the bounty hunter was lying through his even, white teeth.

* * *

Carly sat on her son’s bed. Across from her Henry tugged his muslin nightshirt to his knees, his head bent low, revealing his slender nape and the curve of his velvety cheek.

With a grin Henry scrambled up beside her and cuddled close, gazing up at her. “Mama, is that nice man coming back?”

“What nice man?”

“The man that promised to help you. When you was asleep.”

Henry thought that bounty hunter was nice? Nate Sergeant would most likely show up tomorrow with his sister in tow and try to toss them out.

Well, she wouldn’t budge. “I expect he will.” I expect he will help us to the street. But she couldn’t say that without scaring her son.

She gazed into his guileless blue eyes. “Why do you call Mr. Sergeant nice?”

“You fell down and he caught you. He looked scared. Not scary like Pa.”

Uninvited images surfaced in Carly’s mind, of a full head of dark hair, the shadow of beard along his chiseled jaw, gray eyes laced with regret, the pupils rimmed in charcoal. Those pupils had enlarged, and she’d felt the strangest pull.

Ridiculous.

Nate Sergeant might be handsome, manly, even uneasy about snatching her shop, but that wouldn’t stop him.

“I thought you was dead, Mama. I was afraid.”

“Oh, sweet boy, I’m sorry I frightened you.”

His chin trembling, Henry clutched her arm. “Are you sick?”

“No, I’m healthy and strong. Why, I could wrestle a grizzly bear and win.” Carly tugged him onto her lap.

He smiled up at her, his fear forgotten. “I’m strong, too,” he said, fisting his right hand and gazing at the tiny swell beneath his sleeve. “See my muscle?”

“You are strong. Now climb into bed, my little monkey.”

Henry grabbed the stuffed elephant she’d made for him, its trunk bent and droopy, and scrambled under the covers, pulling them up until only his eyebrows stuck above the quilt. “I’m sleepin’, Mama.”

“Is that so?” Carly leaned forward and peeled back the edge of the blanket with one finger. “Well, I don’t see a sleeping boy. I see a pretending boy.” She leaned in, pressed a kiss to Henry’s forehead, pausing long enough to inhale his sweet, innocent fragrance. He filled her heart with joy, made her world complete. “I expect a story will make you sleepy.”

The blanket inched down until she could see mischievous blue eyes, an impish grin. “I love stories.”

Book in hand, Carly slid into the space beside her son. “That’s good, because I love reading you stories.”

Head cradled on his hands, Henry curved toward her, a sixty-pound bundle of energy that brought infinite happiness to her life. Moments like these were what mattered. Moments like these filled her life with meaning. Moments like these had gotten her through the worst days with Max and had her counting her blessings twice over.

Henry listened intently to every word, only interrupting to mimic the sounds made by the animals in the story.

Carly tucked the book on the nightstand. “Time for our bedtime song.” The nighttime ritual reminded Carly of her mother’s faith and the memories of the happy times they’d shared.

Carly cupped her son’s cheek in her palm, and then sang, “Father, we thank Thee for the night and for the blessed morning light. For food and rest and loving care and all that makes the day so fair.”

Lying back on the pillow, his features sweeter than a rosy-cheeked cupid on a postcard Valentine, Henry tilted his face to the ceiling, as if singing for God Himself. “Help me do the things I should and be to others kind and good. In all I do in work or play to grow more loving every day.”

Henry rolled his head toward her and smiled. “Does Grandma hear us singing?”

“She might. If she does, she’s proud of her grandson.”

“She’s proud of you, too, Mama.”

What had Carly ever done to deserve this precious boy? Her throat knotted. She was all that stood between Henry and the ugliness of this world. Was she up to the task of guiding her son to become a man who loved God, a man who thought of others, a man who lived the words of this bedtime song?