An Outlaw in Wonderland

Praise for
Beauty and the Bounty Hunter

“Austin’s finely drawn characters and riveting tension will knock you out of your
boots! Her books are like the smoothest whiskey—they go down easy but pack a punch.
Everyone is sure to fall in love with the fiery Cat and the wily Alexi.”

—Sabrina Jeffries,
New York Times
bestselling author of ’
Twas the Night After Christmas

“Riveting, poignant, and unforgettable,
Beauty and the Bounty Hunter
by Lori Austin is a page-turner that reminded me why I love Westerns. I adored the
unique characters and the depth of their story lines. Lori Austin is a brilliant and
talented storyteller who doesn’t disappoint.”

—Lorraine Heath, author of
She Tempts the Duke

“Refreshingly different,
Beauty and the Bounty Hunter
leaps off the page. You’ll fall in love with the characters and the American West.”

—Susan Mallery, author of
Summer Days

“Lori Austin knows how to build tension and keep the pages turning. With this action-packed
tale of revenge and redemption, the reader is in for a wild ride.”

—Kaki Warner, author of
Bride of the High Country

“From the first page, this book takes off like a horse tearing across the prairie—hang
on and enjoy the ride!”

—Claudia Dain, author of the Courtesan Chronicles

Beauty and the Bounty Hunter An Outlaw in Wonderland

ONCE UPON A TIME IN THE WEST

L
ORI
A
USTIN

A SIGNET ECLIPSE BOOK

Published by the Penguin Group

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New York, New York 10014, USA

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For more information about the Penguin Group visit penguin.com.

First published by Signet Eclipse, an imprint of New American Library, a division
of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

Copyright © Lori Handeland, 2013

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed
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SIGNET ECLIPSE and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

ISBN 978-1-101-60898-2

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the
product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance
to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is
entirely coincidental.

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility
for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

Thanks to the usual suspects: Robin Rue, Beth Miller, Claire Zion, Jhanteigh Kupihea,
Kim Miller, Nancy Berland, Kim Castillo. Everything would be so much harder without
you.

Gettysburg, 1863

D
ammit.” Ethan Walsh turned away from the bloody wreck that had so recently been an
infantryman of the 69th Pennsylvania. “I didn’t become a doctor to watch people die.”

He lifted a hand to rub at his burning eyes, saw the blood dripping off his fingers,
and lowered it again.

“Why
did
you become a doctor?”

Ethan was so tired and his ears were so abused from the rattle of artillery that had
ebbed and flowed near Taneytown Road for hours upon days upon nights that he didn’t
respond. He wasn’t sure if the question was real or imagined. Right then he wasn’t
certain if he was awake or asleep, alive or dead.

“Sir?”

Ethan lifted his gaze to the speaker. They were the only living, breathing, moving
bodies in the makeshift Union hospital that had been set up at the Patterson Farm.
Until now, the place had been full unto bursting. Their commander, Justin Dwinnell,
estimated five hundred wounded soldiers had passed beneath the broad branches of the
orchard and through the stone barn the first night.

How many had come wasn’t as important as how many had left alive. Ethan didn’t think
it was anything close to the number he’d hoped.

“Who are you?” Ethan demanded. “And—” The chill deepened. “Where is everyone?”

Had a shell landed on the barn? Was he dead? His visitor certainly appeared to be.

The man was gray, and Ethan didn’t mean Confederate, although it was impossible to
distinguish the affiliation of the ash-covered uniform. The man had no hat. Perhaps
he’d lost it crossing the River Styx.

Ethan coughed to cover the unseemly chuckle that threatened to escape. Of late, he’d
found himself inordinately amused at situations that were far from amusing. Which
was only fair, considering he also often fought tears that rose for no reason at all.

“You
are
Ethan Walsh?” The man shook his head, and particles of Lord knew what sprinkled the
blood-dampened ground. His hair might be blond, or light brown when washed, but really,
what did it matter?

“And who might be askin’?” Ethan fell back on his father’s brogue, something he often
did when overtired or just plain sad.

The fellow’s smile cracked the dried paste of dirt and blood on his cheeks. He was
younger than Ethan had first thought—perhaps closer to thirty than forty. “If you
take a seat, I’ll explain.”

Frustrated, annoyed, and so damn tired, Ethan kicked over the nearest empty bucket,
sat, and spread one bloody hand in a mocking “after you” gesture.

The man, unperturbed by the mockery or the blood, dipped his head. “At present my
name is John Law.”

At present? What did that mean? Ethan’s confusion must have shown, for “John” continued.

“Last week I answered to Jonas Height. A month ago, Jacob Black.” He winked. “I like
my first name to begin with a
J
. I’m not sure why. I work for the government. The
Union
government,” he clarified, smoothing his palms over a uniform that bore no distinguishing
marks. “Though when traveling across battlefields, it’s best not to be too specific.”

Tired as he was, Ethan had a flicker of understanding. “You’re a spy.”

John winced. “Nasty word. Apt to get a man hung.”

It had, in fact, done just that a year past. Despite an unwritten agreement to exchange
spies and not execute them, the Confederates had hung Timothy Webster in Richmond
for his sins.

“I work for the Intelligence Service,” Law continued.

“Never heard of it.”

The smile reappeared. “Considering our occupation, gathering intelligence, that’s
good news.”

Ethan’s gaze was drawn to the dead boy on his table. “If intelligence could be gathered,
there’d be a lot less stupidity in the world.”

“Clever,” John Law murmured. “That will help.”

“Help with what?”

“We have a proposition. One we think will be instrumental in ending the conflict with
less bloodshed.”

“That ship has already sailed.”

“This war could last a good while yet.”

Ethan’s attention moved from the dead body to the live one. “How long?”

“No one believed it would last this long.”

Both the North and the South had rallied around the idea that the war would be over
in weeks, certainly within months. No one could have ever been more wrong.

The North had the men, the munitions, the money. The South had Robert E. Lee and a
cause. When Stonewall Jackson sent the larger Union force scurrying back to Washington
after the first battle at Bull Run, the Yankees realized they were in for a fight
and called for five hundred thousand additional troops. The Rebs realized they’d crossed
a line they couldn’t uncross and called for more troops as well.

That had been two years ago, and despite the apparent Union triumph in Gettysburg,
Ethan didn’t think a complete victory was imminent. The South had only just begun
to fall. They weren’t going to surrender until there weren’t enough folks left to
hold one another up.

“The Union lost Bull Run because of a spy,” John continued. “First Manassas is what
they call it.”

Us. Them. North. South. Friend. Enemy. Ethan hated it all.

Shouts from the orchard caused Law to cut short his tale. “I’ll get to my point. If
we had someone at the center of the Confederacy, providing us with intelligence, we
could put an end to . . .” He swept out his arm. “This.”

“When you say the center—”

“Richmond.”

Where Webster had died.

“When you say someone—”

Law’s mouth curved. “I mean you.”

“I can’t just dance into their capital and start stealing secrets.” While some days
Ethan thought he’d have to die just to get some rest, he’d prefer not to do so at
the end of a rope.

“Stealing is such an unpleasant word.”

“Yet it fits so well with spying.”

“Two different things. Stealing is taking what doesn’t belong to you. Spying is merely
listening, a little following, perhaps some light reading.”

Still sounded like stealing to Ethan.

“Wouldn’t you like to leave all this behind?” Law asked.

On any other day, Ethan might have said no. But today . . . His gaze returned to the
dead soldier. Today was different. More shouts from the orchard made him realize the
truth.

“I’m a doctor.” He’d never wanted to be anything else.

Despite his mother having died in childbed bearing his brother, Ethan had still looked
upon medicine as a kind of magic. He’d been fascinated with the potions and lotions,
the shiny implements, even the blood. He’d followed Dr. Brookstone, the local physician,
until, in exasperation, the man had snapped, “If you’re going to be underfoot, you
might as well make yourself useful.”

So Ethan had fetched water, scrubbed floors and tables, mucked stables until he was
old enough to become an apprentice. His brother had then taken over Ethan’s duties,
and instead of scrubbing dirt from beneath his nails each night, Ethan had scrubbed
blood.

He had never felt such a sense of rightness, of completion, than when he healed someone.
Which might be why he felt so wrong, so incomplete now. Ethan hadn’t healed anyone
in a very long time. Still . . .

“If I leave, people will die.”

“They’ll die anyway.” Ethan winced. Law saw the opening and took it. “You’d continue
to be a doctor. At one of the largest hospitals in the country.” He shrugged one shoulder.
“Just not
this
country.”

Ethan added large hospital to Richmond and got—“Chimborazo.” The other man smiled
at the interest Ethan couldn’t keep from his voice.

Chimborazo was indeed the largest hospital of its kind. Located near the convergence
of five railroads, most of the Confederacy’s wounded that survived field surgery were
sent there for further treatment and recovery.

“The South might have wooed the best of West Point,” Law continued, “but the North
came out ahead on the doctors.”

Ethan wasn’t certain if that was meant to be flattery or merely a simple statement
of fact. The North had bigger cities, larger universities, more money; it only followed
that they’d have more physicians.

“I don’t see what their lack of medical staff has to do with me.”

“You said if you leave, people die. If you go, people would live. Do you really care
if they wear the gray or the blue?”

Ethan couldn’t and call himself a doctor.

“They need you there more than we need you here.
We
need you there more than we need you here. If you want to save lives, join the Intelligence
Service. You’ll be doing a damn sight more toward that end than you’ve been doing
thus far.”

And because he was tired, and sad, because his last patient had died despite everything
he’d done, and because John Law had begun to make sense, Ethan sighed and said, “What
do you want me to do?”

Law grinned. “I’ll speak to your superior; we can leave straightaway.”

“No.” Law’s smiled faded. “I can’t leave in the middle of a battle. When this . . .”
Ethan waved his hand; at least the blood had dried, and he didn’t spray any of it
about. “When this is done, I’ll go with you. But not before.”

“This
is
done.” Law’s gaze turned to the darkness outside the doorway. “The Rebs just don’t
know it yet.”

“Nevertheless—”

“All right. While you finish trying to save the unsavable, I’ll find a go-between.”

“Not everyone is unsavable,” Ethan muttered, though from the pile of bodies outside,
he would have a hard time defending that statement. “What do you have to find?”

“Someone who can bring information from you without getting themselves caught or killed
in the process.”

“I know just the person.”

Law lifted a filthy hand. “No offense, sir, but I’ll recruit my own men.”

Obviously accustomed to giving orders and having them obeyed, he left.

“No offense,
sir
,” Ethan murmured, “but there’s only one man I trust.” Ethan kept his gaze on Law
until, between one blink and the next, he disappeared. “And you aren’t him.”

•   •   •

Michael Walsh rode south in the wake of his brother.

From the moment Mikey could walk, he’d followed Ethan. He hadn’t had much else to
do. Their mother had gone to God; their father was a blacksmith, and the forge was
no place for children. So Ethan and Mikey had spent all of their time together.

Ethan had gotten sick of his little brother being underfoot all the time. What big
brother wouldn’t? But he wasn’t mean. He’d never thrown rocks or shouted. Instead
he’d hidden and then snuck away. Which was how Mikey had learned to find him.

In truth, he’d always had a talent for it. If Da couldn’t locate a tool or his belt
or sometimes his shoes, Mikey would close his eyes, let his mind grow quiet, and the
next instant he would go directly to the item, wherever it was. He did the same thing
while tracking. Close his eyes, see the area in his mind; then, when he opened his
eyes, the broken branch, the half footprint, the drop of blood would be so clear he
couldn’t understand why he was the only one who could see it.

Some folks thought Mikey was spooky. They avoided him, whispered and pointed. Until
they needed something, or someone, found.

He waited until the two men were nearly fifty miles from Gettysburg. He watched them
make camp, listened to them talk by the fire.

“If you walk into Richmond speaking like a Yankee, you’re going to get hung.”

“What do you suggest?” Ethan asked.

“How are you at Southern?”

“Well, I don’t rightly know, sir. How’s this?”

His companion winced. “God-awful. That’ll get you hung even quicker.” He tilted his
head. “What about Irish?”

Ethan had often imitated their da’s voice, though never in his hearing. He did so
now, and the sound gave Mikey the shivers. It was as though Da were whispering from
the grave.

“And would this be good enough fer ye, me boyo?”

“Better. Lots of Irish down South. It’ll help you blend in.”

Mikey remained in the shadows while they fell asleep. When he approached, not even
the horses heard him coming. He gathered the weapons and hunkered down to wait.

Dawn flickered across the stranger’s face. He opened his eyes, blinked, cursed, and
reached for the rifle that was no longer there. Neither were his pistols. Mikey might
be big, but he wasn’t slow—in body or in mind.

“What is this?” Confusion darkened the fellow’s gaze to the shade of a thunderstorm
at midnight.

Ethan shoved back his bedroll and sat up. “You need a go-between, Law? I happen to
have one.”

“He’s . . .” The fellow’s mouth tightened, and his head tilted as he contemplated
Mikey.

Mikey had hoped that someone known as an intelligence agent might have more brains
than to repeat the same words everyone else said the first time they set eyes on him.
However, instead of “huge” or any of its variations—“gigantic,” “gargantuan,” “massive”—the
man blurted, “Twelve.”

Mikey stiffened. “I am not!”

Law turned to Ethan. “You expect me to use this child as a go-between in sensitive
intelligence operations?”

“Yes,” Ethan said simply.

“No,” Law returned.

“Did you hear him come into our camp?” The agent frowned. “Did you feel him take your
holster and your rifle?” The frown deepened. “Did the horses snuffle, snort, or whinny?
Did you have a single glimmer that we were being followed since Gettysburg?”

Law’s mouth opened, then shut again, and he peered at Mikey with more interest. “How
old
are
you?”

“Seventeen.” The man cast Ethan an exasperated glance. “I was fifteen when I came
to war with Ethan. No one thought I’d be any good, but I showed ’em.”

He
had
to be allowed to enter the Intelligence Service with Ethan. His brother was smart
about books and healing, but when it came to the world, Ethan was as blind as all
the rest of them. Without Mikey to watch his back, bad things would happen.