Logan's Outlaw

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Authors: Elaine Levine

BOOK: Logan's Outlaw
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“MRS. HAWKINS, LOOK AT ME.”
Logan's gray eyes were intense, like storm clouds when lightning flashes through them. “This looks bad, but I've been in worse situations and lived to tell. Stand with your back to mine. Have your gun ready, but by God, don't shoot until I tell you.”
“I won't be taken again. I won't go alive into that hell.”
He didn't respond. He pulled her revolver and checked the chamber, rotated it once, then closed it and put it in her shaking hands. “We don't know it's gonna come to that. If there's one thing an Indian hates, it's unexpected behavior. Our standing here is sure as hell unexpected. Let's just see where this goes.”
She pressed her back to the man who had been her salvation since he'd joined the small group of travelers. She could feel the heated leather of his vest against her shoulders. He was tall. Brave beyond reason.
And about to die because of her.
Also Available by Elaine Levine
RACHEL AND THE HIRED GUN
AUDREY AND THE MAVERICK
LEAH AND THE BOUNTY HUNTER
 
 
 
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
LOGA N'S OU TLAW
Men of Defiance
E
LAINE
L
EVINE
ZEBRA BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
To Barb,
for hugs after nightmares and believing when I didn't.
You are the best sister ever.
 
And to Barr y,
my everything.
Chapter 1
Fort Buford, Dakota Territory, June 1875
 
The cold steel of the Peacemaker gave Sarah Hawkins an artificial sense of security. Had she owned this gun a year ago, the Sioux would never have taken her alive.
“You're too little for that piece,” the shopkeeper said as he frowned down at the revolver she was examining. “That's a seven-and-a-half-inch barrel, almost three pounds fully loaded. And begging your pardon, ma'am, but after you fire it, you'll be sitting on your backside.”
“I have to agree, Mrs. Hawkins,” Captain Frasier spoke up. “A derringer is just as deadly and would be easier for you to handle. You don't have the strength a man has in his hands and shoulders to use a Colt effectively.”
Sarah checked the cylinders of both guns. They were empty. She pointed the derringer at the shopkeeper, practicing her aim, familiarizing herself with the weapon. He barely registered concern. When she lifted the Peacemaker, he stepped back quickly—even knowing it wasn't loaded.
A gun was for killing. The bigger, the better.
The fear she'd felt when the war party raided their cabin had been crippling. She doubted her ability to kill herself with the little derringer, should the situation arise again. And she knew, sometime in the next fortnight, it would.
“How much for the Colt?” she asked the shopkeeper.
“Twenty-five dollars.”
Sarah gasped, shocked. “The catalog price is just seventeen dollars! Shame on you for taking advantage of a widow.”
“I got a strong market for that gun, ma'am. Ain't a man on the post who wouldn't sign over two months' wages for it. None of 'em want to be caught out on the plains without a piece of iron at their side. But if you want the catalog price, then I'll place that order for you. In three months or so you'll have your gun.”
Waiting was not possible. She was leaving for Cheyenne tomorrow. “I'll pay twenty dollars for the gun and five boxes of cartridges.”
The shopkeeper's eyes bulged. “You want me to give it away? I told you I got buyers standing in line for it.”
The captain cleared his throat, catching the shopkeeper's eye. A look or signal passed between the men that made Sarah grit her teeth. She was a supplicant, in need of anyone and ever yone's help. The women at the fort had taken up a collection for her, which was the source of the funds she planned to use for the gun—and the very clothes she wore. She hated being needy, even as she was grateful so many were willing to help.
After paying for her stage ticket and food supplies for the journey, she had only thirty dollars to her name. This purchase would leave her with ten dollars once she reached Cheyenne, enough to live on for two weeks if she found affordable lodging and ate only once a day. Two weeks was enough time for her to find a job, to begin over—or at least, to find a way to support herself until she felt it was safe enough to leave Cheyenne.
It was the only plan she had, and she was sticking to it.
“What I expect, sir, is for you to sell the gun to me for a fair price.”
The shopkeeper glared at her, his mouth compressed into a thin line. He exchanged another look with the captain. “The gun and three boxes of cartridges.”
“Done,” she said.
“And throw in a holster and a gun belt,” the captain added. “And a kit for cleaning the pistol.”
“No!” Sarah turned to look at him. “I haven't the funds for those things. The gun and cartridges are all I need.”
“Then the others will be my gift to you, Mrs. Hawkins. It is the least I can do, as an officer of the United States Army.”
The shopkeeper eyed her waist. “Don't have a gun belt that'll fit a tiny thing like her.”
“Then get a large one we can wrap twice around her,” the captain said.
A short while later, at an area designated for shooting practice, Sarah took the gun out of the holster and put it back, twice, getting a feel for the revolver, making sure she could handle it even with the tight fit of her gloves. The weapon's heavyweight made her feel less a victim. The Sioux might come for her again, but if they did, she wouldn't be taken alive—and she wouldn't die alone.
She nodded at Captain Frasier, ready to begin learning some rudimentary things about loading and handling her gun. “Have you ever known a gunfighter, Captain?”
He frowned. “Why do you ask that?”
Sarah smiled as she holstered her Colt and spread her hands wide. “Because I feel like one right now. Don't I look rather fearsome?” She laughed, softening the intense curiosity behind her question.
“I did know one once. Red McGuire. He's in jail now. Heard there was another one up in Defiance, but I think he's retired.”
“What's his name? Where's Defiance?”
“Jace Gage. Wyoming.” Captain Frasier crossed his arms. “You seem intent on finding a gunfighter. Why?”
Sarah sighed. “I'll only have this afternoon to practice with you. Surely it takes much longer to become an expert shootist.”
The captain's brows lifted. “Mrs. Hawkins, please forgive my curiosity, but why in God's name would you want to become a shootist?”
“Because, Captain, I am a widow. I need to be able to protect myself.”
The captain glared down at her. A red flush slowly rose up his neck. “None of that is necessary. You could marry me. I would protect you. You would have my name. No one would dare whisper even a hint about what happened to you. You wouldn't have to leave the fort, except with me when I'm reassigned to a new post.” He took hold of her free hand as his words spilled out in an impassioned fer vor.
At the contact, a buzzing started in Sarah's head. She tried to pull free, but he wouldn't release her. She tried again with no better results. Her lungs ceased pulling air.
“Please tell me you'll consider my proposal.” Sarah went very still, neither resisting nor encouraging him. “I know what you've been through, what those red monsters did to you. You must know by now that I would not hold it against you.”
He paused, releasing her hand as he became aware of her stillness. Anger broke the panic crippling her lungs, letting her take little gasps of air. Her wounds were still raw, her scars permanent. If he married her, she doubted he would ever be able to forget—or let her forget—what had been done to her.
It didn't help any to know the captain was right. Few men would take her to wife once they learned what had happened to her. She had no money, no skills, and no family. Though she was fairly well educated and could perhaps find a teaching job, that would only last until her students' parents learned she had been a captive. Everything was lost to her. Perhaps, when she had completed the task she'd set for herself, his offer would still be open.
Marriage—to anyone—was her best chance for survival.
She had only to get to Cheyenne and give the sheriff the papers, correct a wrong she needed to see put right. What happened after that mattered very little.
“Captain, I am not ready to be a wife again.” She could not bring herself to look at his eyes. The very thought of letting a man near her body made her physically ill. “Though it is kind of you to offer. Let's just focus on the lesson, shall we?”
Unfortunately, before they could get beyond loading and unloading her gun, Captain Frasier was summoned back to the office to attend to a military matter. He escorted Sarah to the little cabin she'd been provided as lodging among the laundresses' quarters. Several cots filled the small, one-room space. During the time she'd been at Fort Buford, other women had occasionally stayed there with her, but it had been hers alone for the past week.
The captain took her key from her and was just fitting it into the lock when the door swung open.
“Mrs. Hawkins, you must pay attention to securing your quarters. We're a small, close-knit group of people here at the fort, but there's no need to put temptation in front of anyone. We do have many transients come through, begging for handouts—Indians and such. It isn't safe to assume—”
“I did lock it.” Panic made her bold enough to interrupt his lecture. She slipped past him into a space that looked as if a buffalo had been let loose in it. Furniture was overturned. Bedding was slashed and shredded. The supplies she'd bought for the trip littered every surface. Straw and feathers were spread about. Her fine linens—the only mementos left of her family's Philadelphia home—were cut into scraps. Even the clothes that had been donated to her by the fort's women were sliced and ripped.
She couldn't breathe, couldn't move. Her heartbeat sounded in her ears, pounded her brain, drowned out whatever it was that the captain was saying. He stepped to the door and shouted an order. In the midst of the debris, she sighted her carpetbag turned upside down. It lay discarded next to her empty trunk, whose false bottom had been dislodged.
She stepped woodenly toward the satchel, looking for its support board, the one she'd sewn her husband's papers into. She sifted through the pile of shredded clothes and spilled foodstuffs.
It was gone... . Fear made her knees weaken. The room started to spin. It was gone.
Men hurried into the room. There were angry voices behind her. Someone pulled on her arm, but she jerked free. She pushed aside more debris, digging to the left, to the right. Her frantic motions stirred up a fog of flour from a ripped sack. Someone pulled at her again, but as he started to draw her to her feet, she found the support board. Crying out, she lunged for it, clasped it to her breast. The stitches were untouched.
Whoever had done this had left empty-handed. The papers were safe.
 
Logan Taggert pulled his saddle off his lathered mount and set it on the corral fence. Even at this early hour, the hostlers were rushing about the livery, taking care of the livestock.
“Taggert!” the stable master shouted as he trotted over. “What in the blazes are you doin' out here?”
Logan shook hands with the old cowpoke. “I could ask the same of you. Thought you retired to a life of uxury.”
“I'm too old for running cattle, but not too old to clean a hoof or two. Need a fresh mount?”
“I do. I'm headin' over for some grub. You think Bella's kitchen is open?”
“Today it is. There's a stage leaving for Cheyenne. You ridin' shotgun? Heard they were looking for a couple of men.”
“Hell no. I value my scalp too highly for a leisurely coach ride across open country while the Sioux are on the warpath.” He looked over at the black stage where six horses were being hitched up. “Who in his right mind would run stages between here and Cheyenne, anyway?”
“It ain't no more crazy than opening trading posts in Indian country, I reckon,” the grizzled old man said, shooting Logan a meaningful look. “Martin Chandler, the man who owns that coach and a dozen others, is figurin' on beating out the competition, getting the first start carrying folks between Deadwood and Cheyenne, what with all the gold being found in the Black Hills.”
Logan whistled. “He's got no business up there. That land belongs to the Sioux.”
“Since when has that ever mattered? There's gold up there. I, for one, am glad for the business it's bringing us. The hell with them red savages. I may actually retire and go panning myself.”
Logan's mood darkened. The hostler's attitude was exactly why no white man, woman, or child was safe here anymore. He strode over to the trading post, wanting to eat and ride out, well ahead of that stage and any trouble gunning for it. He hoped the storekeeper's wife could be talked into making him one of her famous breakfasts. His stomach grumbled in anticipation.
He crossed the dusty road, passing fort buildings that cast long, angular shadows of the morning sun across the ground. As brisk as the morning was, the day promised to be brutally hot. He stepped up on the boardwalk that fronted the trading post. A couple was strolling his way. The man wore an officer's uniform bearing a captain's insignia. The woman, far too thin, wore an ill-fitting dress of brown homespun. The captain carried her carpetbag and held her coat draped over his arm. The woman looked up at Logan as they went past.
Their eyes connected. Locked. He sucked in a breath. All rational thought fled his mind, as did his manners. He didn't lift his hat or nod or even move aside to give them room to pass. He just stared. Her hair was of the palest blond he'd ever seen, paler even than his own. Her nose was straight and little. Her chin came to a delicate point. Her eyes were big and brown. And utterly, devastatingly, haunted.
He caught the tail end of their conversation as they passed him. “You'll be safe on Chandler's stage, ma'am,” the captain assured her. “He's hired a professional guard to ride shotgun. Chandler's setting up roadhouses along the way, so there will be a few overnight stops that don't involve camping outdoors. He can make the trip to Cheyenne in a little less than two weeks from here.”

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