The Bounty Hunter's Bride (8 page)

Beau drained the last of his coffee, a brew far better than the muck at the saloon, then set down the cup. His gaze landed on Dani with Esther wiggling in her lap. Like himself, she looked wistful. Clay Johnson had robbed Beau of a family. A lightning bolt had robbed Dani of the same pleasure. God, it seemed, had turned His back on them both.

Seething inside, Beau pushed to his feet. “It’s time to go. The cows won’t wait.”

“Of course,” Dani said.

Esther jumped down from her lap. “We have to say goodbye to the kittens.”

Beau opened his mouth to say no, but Adie took the child’s hand. “Let’s go, girls. I have something special for you.”

Dani stood. “I’ll start the dishes.”

“No, you won’t.” Josh had used his preaching voice, the one that boomed. “You’ve got enough to do with those girls. I’ll give Adie a hand.”

Beau grinned. He couldn’t help it. He remembered Josh and Adie teasing each other in the kitchen during a church potluck. Every bachelor had been envious. That night, Beau had decided to marry Lucy. Before his gaze could slide to Dani, he turned his back and walked into the front room where he saw a stone hearth. Tonight Josh would build a fire. Adie would sew and he’d read his Bible.

Beau had spent a thousand nights under open sky, sitting by fires he’d built for himself and no one else. He craved that solitude now, but he had four females in his care and a pasture full of cows who’d be bawling up a storm if they didn’t get home soon. Dani had passed him and was putting on her hat. He turned to tell her to hurry up but stopped without saying a word.

She’d bent her neck and raised her arms to stick in a pin. Tendrils of blond hair fell across her nape, brushing the collar of her pink dress. Beau couldn’t stand the sight of her, but neither could he turn away. How long had it been since he’d seen a woman put on a hat? How long would it be before it happened again? Weeks, months, maybe years…whatever it took to bring Johnson to justice. Never mind the lonely ache in his chest. He owed it to Lucy to hunt down the man who’d robbed them of a future. God had blinked that day, but Beau had seen every drop of her blood. He wanted vengeance, no matter the cost.

Daniela Baxter was a distraction he couldn’t afford. He made his voice hard. “Are you ready?”

“I am now,” she replied.

Beau strode forward. Josh cut in front of him and opened the door, motioning her to pass as if she were a queen. When she smiled her thanks, Beau wanted to slug Josh. His reaction made no sense. Josh had been raised in Boston, the son of a shipping tycoon, and he had the manners to prove it. He was also a minister, a shepherd guiding a lost lamb.

Why hadn’t God provided that protection for Lucy? Seeing Josh and Adie, sharing a meal, Dani and her hat…Beau couldn’t take the reminders of what he’d lost. He wanted to get home, milk the blasted cows and sit alone in the dark. Pulling his hat low, he followed Dani to the wagon where Adie and the girls were huddled at the tailgate.

Beau smelled trouble. He’d have gone for his gun, but the suspects were three little girls and a preacher’s wife. Striding forward, he tried to sound casual. “What are you ladies looking at?”

Emma hunched over something in her arms. Ellie gave him a pleading look. Esther was bouncing on her feet like a rabbit thumping its back leg. He looked to Dani for an explanation and saw a chin as hard as his own.

“Miss Adie gave the girls a kitten,” she said. “Isn’t that nice?”

Beau couldn’t believe his ears. What was the woman thinking? As soon as he could make arrangements, the girls would be headed to Minnesota. What if Harriet Lange didn’t like cats? What if she was allergic? If she didn’t take the girls, he’d be sending them to school. They’d suffer another heartbreak, one that could have been avoided.

Beau glared at Adie. “You should have asked me.”

“Maybe,” she said. “But it’s done now.”

Emma straightened her shoulders, revealing a black-and-white kitten with blue eyes and a pink tongue. It yawned, then snuggled in the crook of her elbow. As hard as he’d become, even Beau couldn’t tell the girls to give the cat back. Feeling like a fool, he worried about where the kitten would sleep. Tonight the little fellow would cry for his mama and brothers.

Dani scratched the kitten’s neck. “A boy or a girl?”

“A boy,” said Adie.

“He’ll be a fine mouser,” Josh added.

The kitten stretched, revealing three white paws and one black one. He looked as if he’d lost a shoe.

Beau gave up. “We best get going.”

After hugs and promises for Sunday, the girls scrambled into the wagon. Beau closed the tailgate, then approached Dani and Adie who were jabbering like magpies. Beau felt an old stirring. In Denver, Lucy had taken forever to leave church because she’d had so many friends. Beau would stand at her side, grinning like a fool.

Josh shot him a look of male commiseration, but Beau wasn’t grinning now. He cleared his throat. “Miss Baxter?”

Dani glanced at him. “I’m ready.”

She hugged Adie, then turned to the wagon. Before Josh could step forward, Beau gave her a hand up to the seat. The minister wasn’t the only man with manners. Beau’s just needed a little polishing. He tipped his hat to Adie, shook Josh’s hand and climbed onto the seat. After pulling on his gloves, he took the reins and headed home.

Home.

The word caught in his mind like barbed wire. He didn’t have a home and he didn’t want one. The giggles coming from the bed of the wagon gave him a headache. So did the sun setting over the blue cut of the mountains and the streak of pink in the sky. Dusk usually calmed him. It meant the end of a day, solitude and the peace of sleep. Today the fading sun pressed him to hurry. The cows needed milking. The girls needed their beds.

“Beau?”

Dani’s voice matched the dusk. He hadn’t invited her to use his given name, but it sounded natural.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Supper was nice. When we first met, I didn’t know you were a lawman.”

He grunted. “Josh talks too much.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Dani lace her fingers in her lap. “They like you.”

Beau said nothing. The man they’d known in Denver had died with Lucy.

“I don’t mean to pry.” Her voice dipped low. “But you were good at your work. Do you miss it?”

“I never gave it up.”

“You mean Clay Johnson.”

“And others.” Beau shifted his weight. “Johnson rides in and out of my life. Sometimes I get close and he runs. Sometimes he comes after me, makes a threat and runs again. It can take months to pick up his trail.”

“What do you do in between?”

“I check Wanted posters.”

“How do you choose?” Dani asked.

Mostly Beau got a feeling. “I pick the man with the deadest eyes.”

He heard the soft rush of her breath. “You’re a bounty hunter.”

Beau frowned. “I don’t do it for the money. I do it for—”

“Lucy.”

He doubted his wife would approve. “I was going to say justice.”

Dani stared straight ahead. “The Blues respect you. I want you to know. I do, too.”

A woman’s praise shouldn’t have made Beau square his shoulders, but it did. Aside from earning a living, he found satisfaction in his work. He brought peace to widows and orphans. He helped people who couldn’t help themselves. Most of the time, he felt content with his cause, but tonight he missed the things he’d given up.

With dusk settling, he wished he’d never set eyes on Daniela Baxter and her pink dress, his nieces with their blond hair, even the kitten. Parted from its mother and brothers, the poor thing was meowing its heart out. Beau knew how it felt. If the girls weren’t careful, it would bite and scratch out of frustration.

Emma’s voice carried over the rattle of the wagon. “We have to decide on a name.”

“I like Fluffy,” said Esther.

Beau winced. No male deserved a handle like Fluffy. He felt offended on the cat’s behalf but didn’t say anything.

“He’s a boy,” Ellie said, sounding superior. “Let’s call him Prince.”

Beau clenched his teeth. Prince beat out Fluffy, but not by much. The kitten was destined to lose all dignity.

Dani turned to the girls. “How about Boots?”

It fit, but Beau didn’t like it.

“It’s kind of plain,” Emma said.

The females batted around names, each one as unmanly as the last. After a mile, Beau had heard enough. “Name him Fred.”

“Fred?” The females cried out in a horrified chorus.

“Or Hank or Sam,” he said. “Anything but Fluffy.”

He’d stunned the girls into silence. Beau reveled in the quiet until Esther spoke up. “Uncle Beau?”

Until now, no one had called him by that name. His belly flipped. “What is it?”

“What name do
you
like?” asked the child.

He thought for a minute. “I’d call him T.C. for Tom Cat.”

“I like it,” Emma said.

“Me, too,” Ellie added.

Dani hummed her approval. “T.C.’s an excellent name.”

Beau turned in her direction and saw a shine in her eyes, a longing that matched the pull in his gut. Children…laughter…hope. When she turned to the kitten and smiled, he saw it as an act of defiance. Dani Baxter would grab the rope of happiness, no matter how frayed, and hold on. His belly burned. If Harriet Lange took his offer, that rope would be yanked from her hands. Beau knew how that felt. Her flesh would tear and bleed. He wanted to tell her to let go now, to forget the kitten and the little girls, but he knew she wouldn’t do it.

She must have sensed his gaze, because she turned to him. When her lips tipped into a smile, a sad one but honest, Beau felt it like his own. He jerked his eyes back to the road. T.C. meowed hungrily. Dani stared straight ahead. “We’ll give him milk as soon as we get home.”

Fool that he was, Beau felt happy for the cat.

Clay Johnson lifted the rope from his saddle, made a noose and slipped it around his horse’s neck. It pained him to put her down, but Ricochet had stepped in a prairie dog hole and busted her leg.

He’d ridden a thousand miles on the mare, maybe more. Unlike other females, she didn’t recoil when he came near. She’d nuzzle his hand and look for apples. Sometimes he thought she liked him. Clay had nothing to give but a quick death, so he unholstered his pistol, pressed the barrel between the mare’s eyes and pulled the trigger.

Clay would have said a prayer if he’d thought God was listening, but he had no such illusions. No one could forgive a man who’d done as much harm as Clay. He’d hated. He’d stolen. He’d cursed. He’d even murdered a woman.

He’d never forget shooting Lucy Morgan. He’d been aiming for her husband when she’d rushed into the man’s arms. The bullet had hit her square in the back. Clay could still see Morgan’s eyes, going wide and then searching the roof across the street. He’d seen the puff of smoke and spotted Clay lowering the rifle. Clay knew he’d signed his own death warrant. A wife trumped a brother in any man’s book, including Clay’s. He hadn’t been ready to die, so he’d run.

He still wasn’t ready, though at times like this, with Ricochet gone and Morgan dogging him, he thought about eternity and wondered if the stories about Heaven were true. He remembered his ma’s Bible and a picture of Noah’s ark. Did animals go to Heaven? Clay hoped so. As he looked back at Ricochet’s remains, he coughed to hide the lump in his throat. Holstering the weapon, he looked uphill for his partners. Before putting Ricochet down, he’d transferred his saddle to his packhorse. To keep the other animals from spooking, his partners, Goose and Andy, had led them up the trail.

Clay called out to them. “It’s done. Bring my horse.”

“Sure thing, boss,” Andy shouted.

Clay watched as Andy led the gelding down the hill. With his red hair and freckles, he looked more like a kid than the con man he was. Goose, short for Augusto, watched him from the top of the trail. Mounted on a mustang, he took off his hat and wiped his brow, revealing white teeth and the blue-black hair brushing his shoulders. Goose liked guns and money, in that order.

Clay had met the pair in Laramie. Like himself, they were horse thieves by trade. For the past six months, the trio had been raiding ranches near the Rockies, staying a step ahead of Beau Morgan and the law. Clay didn’t mind posses on his tail, but Morgan had gotten on his last nerve. The man wouldn’t quit. Deep down, Clay didn’t blame him. Was there a greater sin than killing a man’s wife? Clay didn’t think so.

Andy arrived with the gelding. “Too bad about Ricochet. She was a good animal.”

“The best,” Clay said.

Andy turned his pony, a quarter horse with a pretty face and big rump, and spurred it up the trail.

As Clay mounted the gelding, he missed Ricochet even more. The packhorse had a swayback and no spirit. When Clay nudged it with his heels, the animal laid back its ears. He kicked it hard. The beast bucked forward, throwing him off balance.

Andy cackled.

“Shut up,” Clay bellowed.

The kid hooted like a coyote.