Read The Gallows' Bounty (West of Second Chances) Online
Authors: Desiree Banks
The Gallows' Bounty (West of Second Chances)
The Gallows’
Bounty
West of Second Chances: Book Two
Desiree Ann Banks
Copyright 2012 Desiree Ann Banks
Cover Photo: Desiree Banks
Cover Illustration: Matthew Wolff
Cover Models: David Young and Faith Pointer
The Gallows’ Bounty Copyright © 2012 Desiree Ann Banks
All Rights Reserved
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a result of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
About the author:
Desiree Banks is a Midwestern author who spent a lot of time in the car without a cell phone as a child. This led to an overactive imagination and even longer trips to England, France, Germany, Switzerland, Italy, Mexico, and Panama. Now as a wife, mother of four, and a high school English teacher, she uses her imagination to travel to other times and places. She hopes you enjoy her 'travels' with her.
Other Titles:
Landry’s Last Love
Small town gossip and her abusive father made Rachel Moore swear never to return home, but that all changes when she and her son are threatened. With danger on her heels, Rachel reunites with her life-long friend Sheriff Brandt Landry and finds more in his arms than she ever expected. But Brandt faces his own problems in his meth-riddled county and the killer stalking its residents has him fighting to protect everything he holds dear. Will Brandt be able to protect the woman he has come to love?
(Excerpt following
The Sheriff’s Widow
.)
The Gallow’s Bounty
West of Second Chances: Book One
She had every reason to die until he gave her every reason to live... When former bounty hunter Ezra Boden catches sight of Willow Donovan, he determines to show her that he's one of the good guys, a man who can be trusted. Willow Donovan learned never to trust a man, not even a man who saved her from hanging. Can tenderness forge a trust, a love to last a lifetime?
To my family and friends for all of their proofreading and encouragement
.
One
Dakota Territory, May 1888
I
T WAS THE PERFECT
day to die.
Large raindrops fell heavy from dark clouds.
Devils Lake hardly needed more rain. The already marshy ground grew softer with each droplet while strong winds blew from the north, ripping hats off pedestrians and adhering clothes to thin, overworked bodies.
Beneath those skies, the gallows of Devils Lake reflected the crudeness and difficulties of the frontier life. The town rested on the overflowing shores of its namesake, a beautiful body of water teeming with wildlife and snuggled between rare Dakota hills. The lake was about the only beautiful thing the settlement could boast.
On the outskirts of Devils Lake, odds and ends of timber formed a platform beneath a bleached cottonwood tree. Several of its branches stretched high in the sky, stark fingers scarring the horizon. A branch near the ground drew her attention. A hangman’s noose dangled from its debarked length. The coil swayed slightly in the wind as water dripped from its lowest point.
That same loop would soon be about Willow Donovan's neck. She would die, her neck snapping as the loop tightened.
No one would mourn her passing.
The hand at her elbow squeezed tighter and pushed her another step up the rough stairs of the gallows. She fought the iron grip only to be pushed forward with brutal force. Her shins cracked painfully against the rough
-hewn steps.
Hot breath stung her ear before she heard Sheriff French ask, “Afraid to die?”
“No,” she returned.
Subjugated by her kneeling position,
Willow trembled as the sheriff roughly took her arm and hauled her up. She didn’t tremble with fear; she trembled with anger. She'd demanded the sheriff wait for the judge, but French had refused, seeming in a hurry to be rid of her.
“Well, you should be afraid,” he said, forcibly moving her up the stairs. His fingers bit into her arms. “You know what that rope will do to your neck, don’t you?”
On the gallows’ platform, French slid his rough hand up her throat, increasing the pressure as he went. Her heart thundered. Would he snap her neck without the aid of the gallows?
Releasing her, Sheriff French slipped the noose over her head, her hair snagging on the rough rope as he forced the noose inevitably downward. He pressed a thumb to her pulse. “You’re not so unafraid, woman.”
“There are things worse than death.” And there were. She had lived through many of them.
“What’s worse than death?” He slowly pulled the slack out of the noose until it sat snug and wet against her skin.
Watching my parents die. Miscarrying because of a man’s violence. Being taken by unknown men. Living every moment afraid to live.
She stopped her thoughts there. After nearly three years of abuse, death would soon relieve her misery. She would face it bravely.
French caught her under the chin and forced her eyes up to meet his. “Don’t forget that I know you,
Willow. Knowing you makes it that much easier to make your life hell. Leastways, what’s left of it. I’ll miss our time together.”
“I’m sorry I can’t say the same,”
Willow said, hate making her blood boil. “You forced your attentions on me.”
“We both know you enjoyed them,” French asserted.
“You have raped me, Sheriff. I hardly call that enjoyable.” Willow met his gaze now under her own power, disgust evident in her eyes.
“No, maybe you didn’t enjoy it, but the more you fought, the more I enjoyed it.” French caressed her neck with one hand while his other slid down her body in a proprietary fashion. He leaned close and whispered in her ear, “I thanked Roberts for my use of you.”
She spit in his face, a vile act her mother would have frowned upon, but she took satisfaction in French’s anger. “I wasn’t his to give.”
French glared hard at her as he wiped his face clear. When he finished, he moved his hand onto the noose and yanked up, jerking it tight about her neck. Then his face, distorted with anger, loomed in front of her. His hot breath assailed her cheek as he said, “You have yet to learn a proper respect for men. Death just may not be the punishment for you,
Willow.”
And somehow she was even more afraid.
EZRA BODEN HATED HIS
quarterly trips to town, so when an angry mob greeted him on the outskirts of Devils Lake, he contemplated turning for home. He didn’t have time to mess with excitable, bloodthirsty settlers. He’d seen enough of humanity out of control to last him a lifetime.
While he didn’t enjoy the rowdiness of
Devils Lake, Boden made sure he traveled to the settlement for the Box B’s supplies. If he didn’t, he’d never get time to fish.
And he loved to fish.
Out alone on the water he drifted, left his worries behind. On the water, he felt no need to watch his back, only his line. Today a soft spring shower fell, and Boden could almost imagine the catches he would reel in once he got his hook in the water.
He never let his ranch hands know he insisted on making the trips to town because he wanted to fish. He harbored no desire to explain his need for solitude. He lived alone, ate alone, and slept alone. If he could run the Box B on his own, he would, but as it was, he couldn’t have amassed the five-thousand acre spread by himself. However, he did enjoy being the only occupant of the large ranch house that sat in the middle of his spread. His ranch hands lived in homes dispersed across the ranch, each man protecting their own section of land.
Yep, he’d get his much-needed supplies and settle in at his favorite spot on the lake. A man needed his space.
Riding through the gathered crowd and up to Kern’s Mercantile, he kept his hat low. His past as a bounty hunter usually caught up to him while he was in town. He didn’t need anyone challenging him to a gunfight or to anything else for that matter. The fish were waiting.
Dismounting, he looped Beast’s reins around the hitching post. Well-shielded from the light rain by his slicker and hat, he rested against the hitching post for a moment. He surveyed the rowdy crowd from beneath the low brim of his Stetson. For once, no one paid him any attention. He lifted a hand to his jaw. Maybe it was the beard he’d grown. He’d hoped growing it wouldn’t work to disguise him. The thing itched.
Shouts erupted in front of him, and Boden’s head snapped up, his hand falling away from his irritating whiskers and to his Colt. He expected to see a gun barrel beneath his nose, a fistfight breaking out, anything but a woman being led to the gallows.
Men tore at the woman’s clothing as she passed, but she paid them no mind. Her eyes were focused on the gallows ahead of her. In turn, Boden’s eyes focused on her.
His jaw clenched when Sheriff French pushed her roughly against the gallows’ stairs. Women were scarce in the
Dakotas. Not only was she a woman in a place where women were few, she was a beautiful one. Dark-haired and blue-eyed with a creamy complexion, she stood out like an angel in hell. She held herself tall even with the hangman’s noose
,
an omen of what was to come, looming before her. Her red dress whipped in the stormy winds, outlining her supple figure while her dark hair blew about her face.
He stepped away from the hitching post, effectively distancing himself from the woman’s plight at the same time. He didn’t need to get involved. He wanted peace. Whatever was going on in this godforsaken town was none of his business. Besides, beautiful women committed crimes. He’d even brought in a few of them. He shook off the odd feeling in the pit of his gut and stepped into Kern’s. His stomach just needed a bite to eat, and today he’d be catching his lunch, woman or no woman.
Boden expected to hear a cheery greeting the minute his dripping boots crossed the store’s threshold, but no welcome was forthcoming. Where was the old coot?
“Kern!” he shouted.
Loud footsteps came from the back of the store a moment before Kern appeared. Although Kern edged sixty, he remained a big, sturdy man with broad shoulders. He was by no means short, but the thickness of his body took away from his height and gave him the build of a bear. Kern possessed large, meaty hands, and a scruffy face usually bearing a ready smile.
But today the shopkeeper wasn’t wearing a smile. Instead, he wore a pair of pistols and toted a rifle. From the looks of them, all three had recently been removed from a display case.
“And just what are you supposin’ to do with those?” Boden asked, sarcasm roughening his words.
“I’m gonna stop that rotten, no good sheriff, that’s what!” Kern blustered.
Boden stepped his considerable frame back in front of the store door, effectively halting the storekeeper's exit. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea. You're likely to get yourself shot. Besides, you have a customer.”
“Store’s closed,” Kern said, venturing another hobble toward the door. He kept his gaze down and focused on the task of loading his rifle while he walked.
“Not for me, it’s not. Now put those guns away and get my order ready.” Boden slapped his list into the older man’s chest after he took the rifle out of his hands and proceeded to load it correctly. Kern was one of the few people Boden didn’t worry about shooting him in the back, so it would be best if the gun didn't explode in the shopkeeper's face when he fired it.
Kern let the order drift to the floor and snatched his rifle back. “You gone deaf lately, Boden? I said, ‘The store is closed.’ Now get out of my way before I shoot you out of the way.”
His interest piqued, Boden asked, “What’s Sheriff French up to?”
“He’s hanging a defenseless woman, that’s what.”
“What for?”
“You've never cared about this town’s affairs, Boden, so don’t pretend to now.” Kern punctuated the argument with a daring poke to Boden’s sternum.
So, Kern was still angry with him for not taking the sheriff’s job? Boden had seen enough of killing and death. “Well, your affairs do concern me. I need my order and I need to get out of this town, and the faster I stop you from takin’ on a sharpshootin’ sheriff, the faster I’ll get both.”
Boden hadn’t spoken so many words the entire month. The subject of his involvement in town politics was a longstanding bone of contention between the two men, and he became highly irritated whenever Kern brought it up.
Maybe it’s because you know he’s right.
He pushed the thought aside. He didn’t want to be sheriff, especially not in this town. There was a reason it was named Devils Lake—sinners came here to burn.
Kern rested the rifle butt on his thigh, arm extended, hand gripping the barrel, and emitted a defeated sigh. “You can’t hide behind that beard forever,” Kern reasoned. When Boden didn’t take his bait, the older man continued, “I guess it might be better if you helped her.”
“With your sorry aim, I’m sure it would be,” Boden goaded. He’d thought he’d done a right handy job ignoring his friend’s jibe until he caught himself unconsciously stroking his beard. He dropped his hand instantly.
Was he wrong to leave Devils Lake to its sins?
The old man cackled, obviously noting Boden’s growing agitation.
“Fine,” Boden took the rifle out of Kern’s hands.
He finished his earlier perusal. He lifted the weapon, propping the butt against his shoulder, and stared down the sight. It felt heavy in his hands. He hated killing. Sad thing was, he was damned good at it, armed or unarmed.
“Before I do anything, I’d like to know why she’s hangin’,” Boden prodded as he continued his perusal of the firearm.
When Kern didn't immediately answer, Boden, one eye on his friend, brow cocked, asked, “I suppose there’s a reason?”
“She killed a man—” Kern began.
“Well, that settles it.” Boden handed the rifle back. He wouldn’t have to kill anyone today after all. That sounded all right with him. “Now would you get my order?”
“Hell, no. You’re goin’ to listen to me first.”
Kern looked genuinely upset, and Boden decided to give him a moment of his time. “Go on.”
“I don’t know her whole story, but I know there’s somethin’ that ain’t right here,” Kern asserted.
“You sound like an old woman,” Boden couldn’t help but say, knowing how it would rile the older man. To his surprise, Kern ignored the jibe.
“She stocked shelves for me a couple times when her man couldn’t pay. Real quiet thing. Jumpy. Whatever happened I don’t think she murdered him, just sorta killed him.”
‘“Just sorta killed him
’?” Ezra questioned, eyebrow raised.
“You should have met this man of hers. Brett Roberts was his name. Real mean feller. He’d suggested Willow, that’s the woman, pay his grocery bill in other ways.” Kern shot him a look that insinuated just what those other ways were. “I figure whatever he got, he had it comin’.”
“It’s still murder even if he ‘had it comin’,’” Ezra said. However, a part of him softened toward the woman. He tamped down the feelings. They threatened to reopen old wounds.