The Outlaw Bride (2 page)

Connor Langston rubbed at the ache emanating from the muscles at the back of his neck. He had spent the last hour hunched over the mail packets Dobey Middleton had delivered earlier that morning. Sprigs of hair jutted out at odd angles from his haphazard massage. He patted them down and reminded himself yet again he was long overdue for a stop at Gillis’ Barbershop.

Just one more item on his ever-growing list of things to do that remained undone.

Tipping the chair back on its hind legs, Connor dragged his hands over his face and fought off the overwhelming sense that he was in over his head. The feeling threatened to engulf him on a regular basis. Most days he managed to beat it back but it always lurked in the recesses of his mind.

“Whew! It’s gonna be another scorcher out there, Con.”

Bart Holkum trudged into the sheriff’s office, waving his hat in front of his face to create a breeze. He dropped his aging bones into a straight-back chair opposite Connor.

“Yep.” Connor sighed, not moving. He hated Indian summer. Give him a cool, crisp autumn any day.

Bart chuckled, his feet landing on the corner of the desk. “You gonna peruse those posters or stare at the ceiling all day?”

Connor groaned and let his chair drop back onto all four legs. Scowling at his deputy, he reached across his desk for the wanted posters. “Yeah, yeah. I’m getting to it.”

Eight years ago, Connor had escaped Fatal Bluff, leaving the town and its memories behind. Now here he was, sitting in the sheriff’s office with a badge pinned to his chest and more responsibility than he ever wanted resting on his shoulders. He wondered if he was up to the task.

Not that he had much of a choice. He needed this job and the steady pay it provided. Jenny needed food in her belly, a roof over her head, and a sense of security. Connor could provide the food and the roof. As for the security…well, that was still up in the air.

Bart sent him a sidelong glance. “Anything in there worth mentioning?”

Connor’s shoulders slumped and the in-over-his-head sensation crept back in. He turned his attention to the posters. “No. Nothing on Slade or any of his known associates.”

“Well, maybe next week, huh? Can’t lose hope.”

Connor ground his back teeth. He had lost hope several months ago. Rogan Slade ran free while his brother lay six feet under, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. He couldn’t just take off and hunt the man down. Not now. Not with Jenny. His loyalties tore him in two and bitterness burned at his guts.

“Maybe next week,” he said, feeling little optimism.

“Did you hear back from the sheriff in Mercury?”

There had been only one witness to the stagecoach robbery, a woman who had escaped with Grant. Both had managed to make it as far as a remote farm before Grant died from his wounds. The woman then disappeared into thin air. Who was she? And more importantly, where was she? Her testimony alone could have Slade swinging from a noose in no time. If she could be convinced to testify. So far no one had been that brave.

Connor waved a dismissive hand at the letter sitting on top of the mess covering his desk. “The man that sold her the ticket barely remembers her. The old codger that owns the farm gave a brief description that was so generic it could have been anyone. He doesn’t know where she went or exactly when she left. It’s like she turned into a ghost and drifted off into the night.”

Bart scratched at his grizzled beard. “Ain’t much to go on.”

“Sheriff! Sheriff!”

Oliver Hewitt bustled through the door and up to the desk. Connor grimaced. The uppity businessman was one irritation he could do without today. It seemed every second day Oliver had a new problem that required his immediate attention. Most days, Connor managed to take Oliver’s complaints with a grain of salt, but not today. The sweltering heat had sapped his energy and his patience, until both were stretched beyond their limits.

“What now,” Connor grumbled. Unread mail remained piled on his desk and a stack of wanted posters needed to be tacked around town. He had no time for the likes of Oliver Hewitt.

“Please, Sheriff, your assistance is required most urgently.” Oliver pulled a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his well-tailored suit and mopped his brow. “My mail-order brides have arrived.”

“Congratulations. Now go away.” Connor waved a hand at the door and picked up one of the posters, reading through the description of a man wanted for murder and general mayhem three counties over.

He didn’t want anything to do with Oliver’s latest venture of securing mail-order brides for Fatal Bluff’s bachelors. It was bad enough the townsfolk had been attempting to marry him off since his return. But he’d rather cozy up with a rattler than a bride. The result would be about the same.

Oliver cleared his throat and gripped the lapels of his jacket, pulling himself up to his full height of five feet and a few inches. “Sheriff, one of the brides is refusing to marry Walter Figg.”

Connor smirked, but didn’t turn his attention from the poster. “You want me to arrest the woman for having good taste?”

Walter Figg had all the personality of a bucking bronco with a burr caught under his saddle. He didn’t blame the woman one whit for refusing to marry the man.

“No, but Mr. Figg is quite upset. He is refusing to take no for an answer and Miss Stockdale will not budge an inch.”

Connor dropped the poster on the desk. He stood, the chair scraping across the floor behind him. Weariness settled into his bones. He placed both his hands on the small of his back and stretched the muscles. Jenny had not slept well the night before. Connor awoke in the middle of the night to find her standing next to his bed, staring down at him silently with sad, soulful eyes. He’d been at a loss over what to do. In the end, he’d sat up with her until she finally dozed off in the wee hours of the morning.

“If the woman doesn’t want to marry Figg, I can’t force her, Oliver.”

“I understand, Sheriff. I just don’t want her to create a scene. I have my business reputation to consider.” He patted down the thin ridge of black hair that wound around his shiny head. A sly, hopeful expression blanketed his features. “You know, Sheriff, if she won’t marry Figg, perhaps you should marry her. Lord knows you could use a wife, what with your current predicament and all.”

Connor’s jaw prickled with warmth. He didn’t need anyone musing about his predicament, current or otherwise. It irritated the hell out of him that eight years later the people in this town still looked upon him with pity. He was tired of their sympathy doled out in the tragic clucking of tongues and heartfelt pats on the backs. He didn’t need the constant reminder. He just wanted to get on with his life.

“I don’t need a wife,” he bit out, glaring at the small man.

The sound of raised voices filtered through the half-open door.

“Oh dear…” Oliver’s shoulders hunched up to his ears as if he could block the noise out. “Sheriff, please!”

Connor’s patience snapped. “Dammit, Oliver! Can’t you ever take something on without it turning into a complete disaster?”

The deep baritone of Bart’s voice interrupted Connor’s outburst before Oliver could respond. “Why don’t you run along, Oliver. We’ll be right behind you.”

“Yes, yes. Perfect. Wonderful. Thank you, Sheriff!” Oliver spun around quickly and hustled out the door, reminding Connor of a waddling duck.

Bart pulled out a cheroot from the front pocket of his shirt and lit the end. “Stop glarin’ after the man, son, and let’s go break up the brouhaha.”

Connor stalked to the door and yanked his hat from the hook, jamming it onto his head. “Why am I getting dragged into this?”

Bart chuckled, a low rumble from deep within his chest. He slapped Connor on the back. “You’re getting dragged into this, son, because one day you woke up, rolled outta bed and said, ‘Today I think I wanna be sheriff.’”

Connor barely remembered that day. At the time there had been too many other things to think about.

A shriek interrupted his thoughts and he picked up the pace, running across the street toward the train depot, where a growing crowd waited to greet him.

Though he suspected there wasn’t much left in the world to surprise him, Connor had to admit finding a feisty red-headed woman dangling arse end up over Walter Figg’s shoulder was a bit startling.

“Put me down! I don’t care what you were expecting, I changed my mind. Now let me go this instant and go back under the rock you crawled out from! I will not marry you and you can’t make me.” Small fists pounded Walter’s back with all the fury of a cornered bobcat.

“Shut yer yap, woman.”

A string of colorful names rent the air. “Get your filthy hands off me, you flea-bitten warthog!”

Standing in the crowd, Clara Bates gasped and slapped her hands over her son’s ears. Several others snickered, the ruckus breaking up the monotonous routine of their day. Walter appeared the only one unmoved by the woman’s declaration, or her flailing limbs.

With a frustrated groan, Connor shouldered his way through the growing crowd to stand in front of the jilted groom. This was not how he had planned on spending his day, arguing with the slow-witted mountain man and kicking up a row for all the townsfolk to mull over and discuss for a week of Sundays.

For about the tenth time that day, Connor seriously questioned the new vocation he had acquired. With a weary shake of his head, he pointed to the boardwalk in front of him and addressed the would-be groom. “Walter, put the lady down.”

Katherine stopped beating Walter Figg’s back when a calm, yet commanding timbre cut through the thick afternoon. Bit by bit the crowd settled, until the murmurs extinguished themselves, leaving silence in their wake.

Beneath her, Walter shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his thick shoulder digging into her empty belly.

“I ain’t puttin’ her down, Sheriff. I bought her. She’s mine.”

Katherine smacked him with the flat of her hand. “I am not some sack of grain from the feed store, you mangy cur—”

She froze. Did he say…sheriff?

Her body went limp. Could her luck get any worse?

As if in answer to her unspoken question, a murky cloud of body odor wafted up, filling her nostrils. Her stomach churned. The man smelled worse than a rotting animal carcass.

The sheriff continued, sounding more than a little worn down and a whole lot put out. “I’m sure you and Oliver can reach some kind of agreement.”

“Don’t need no agreement. Need a wife. Now I got me one.”

Katherine gripped two handfuls of Walter’s grungy deerskin jacket and pushed away from him, angling her body to see around the massive mountain man.

Hanging upside down, her vision was skewed and the world turned on its end. The sheriff stood a few paces away. Her gaze traveled up from dusty boots, over faded denims encasing slim hips. Long fingers absently drummed the leather of a low-slung holster. She adjusted her hold on Walter’s jacket to allow her to see past his jutting elbow. Katherine took in a trim waist and broad chest before sunlight glinted off the badge pinned near his pocket. Shards of bright light shot into her eyes, momentarily blinding her.

Walter jostled her again and she swung back behind him, losing sight of her reluctant rescuer. The motion jarred her, knocking the old felt hat from her head. It took with it the few hairpins she had left, scattering them on the ground. A cascade of strawberry curls unfurled and blocked her view of the crowd growing behind Walter.

Another wave of stench rose up to choke her. “Damnation! Let me down, you stinking pile of cow dung!”

“I paid money. You’re mine. Now quiet down, wife!”

“I am not your wife!”

She kicked her feet. The toe of her boot hit upon something solid. Walter grunted and smacked her soundly on the rump. “I won’t be takin’ no sass from you, wife.”

A pistol cocked followed by a collective gasp from the surrounding crowd of onlookers. Fear leaped up Katherine’s throat. She scrambled to peek around Walter Figg, praying she had misinterpreted the sound. She hadn’t.

The sheriff’s long, lean legs stood braced apart, his Colt aimed at her captor’s barrel-like chest.

“You hit her again, I’ll shoot. Plain and simple. Now put her down.”

“Don’t shoot!” There was nothing plain and simple about it. Draped over the man’s body, what was to stop him from using her as a shield? “You might hit me!”

A low growl emanated from the sheriff. “Ma’am, my aim isn’t that bad.” He waved his gun at Walter. “I’m not going to tell you again.”

The muscles in Walter’s back bunched with tension. Katherine held her breath and silently prayed the sheriff’s aim was every bit as good as he claimed. Her body trembled. Her intended husband had all the give of a mule. He was hardly about to just toss her aside and—

“Oh!”

Her feet hit the ground hard and Katherine stumbled backward, her arms windmilling in a sad attempt to find purchase. Unruly curls whipped around her face, blinding her. She fought to regain her balance but it was no use. Skirts and petticoats entangled about her legs while she spun out of control. Then she was falling.

Hard bands of steel wrapped around her middle and swiftly brought her upright.

“Dammit, Walter,” the sheriff cursed, his mouth close enough to her ear that the heat of his breath warmed her skin. A shiver shimmied its way down her spine. His arm tightened pulling her flush against him. “I said set her down, not throw her down.”

“She’s down either way, ain’t she?”

The masculine scent of leather and soap permeated her senses, a wonderful respite from the foul stench of Walter Figg. She wanted to burrow into it, inhale the intoxicating blend until all traces of the mountain man faded away.

“Ma’am?”

Katherine lifted her head. A quick shake tossed her hair away from her face. She ventured a quick glimpse at the man who had saved her.

Dear Lord.

The clear blue of his eyes struck her first. A brilliant cerulean rimmed and flecked with slivers of black. She’d never seen a color quite like it. But more startling than their hue, was the intensity that burned within them. An intensity that was fixed solidly on her. An unfamiliar sensation burned through her body like a brush fire, setting her skin ablaze as if her clothes had fallen away and left her unprotected from the sun’s penetrating heat.