Read The Outrider (Redbourne Series #5 - Will's Story) Online
Authors: Kelli Ann Morgan
The Outrider (Redbourne Series #5 - Will's Story) (2 page)
To my closest friends in
each aspect of my life—
Jody Allsop, Susie
Dawson, Lesli Lytle,
and my wonderful mother,
Carolyn Palmer.
Kansas,
Early April 1870
Elizabeth Archer looked around at the ranch she’d
purchased in a fake name and breathed out a heavy sigh. Since she didn’t know
the legalities of unmarried women being allowed to own land in this state—let alone
a British immigrant, she had pretended to have a husband, which had seemed like
a good idea at the time.
Elizabeth stood in front of her dilapidated house,
hands on hips, and blew at a stray lock of hair dangling in front of her eyes. Shutters
had fallen away from the windows in disarray and the paint on the house peeled
from the wood. There was no shortage of work to be done and she almost wished
the husband she’d invented really existed—if only to help get the place in
order.
Woof. Woof.
She giggled as the large, loveable red coonhound
who’d become her travelling companion somewhere near the Missouri-Kansas
border, chased a squirrel up the enormous tree looming heavily over the big
wrap-around porch at the side of the house.
“Come on, Caspar. Let the poor thing alone.” She
heaved up the bucket she’d filled with water from the well and marched up the
front steps, the dog on her heels, and strode through the house into the
disheveled kitchen. Maybe a good day’s work would tire her out enough to banish
the unwelcome memories that invaded her thoughts more often than she cared to
admit.
Caspar happily settled into the corner where
minute whimpers and squeals came from the pups she’d delivered just a few days
ago. It had been quite the surprise for Elizabeth to discover that her
travelling companion had been expecting.
Elizabeth had already cleared away most of the
clutter around the house over the past few days, but the surfaces of the
counters, tables, and floor were still caked in a layer of dirt and grime. It
was no surprise that the man from whom she had purchased her new home had lived
alone, as she didn’t imagine there was a woman alive whose house would be in
such disarray. She knelt down beside the bucket, plunged the thick brown sponge
into the soapy water, and started scrubbing the dirty wood floor.
Now that she’d had time to think it through
properly, starting out in a new place with such a blatant lie probably had not
been her brightest idea, but as an unmarried woman in a new land, she hadn’t
wanted to deal with the questions that would accompany her purchase. She just
wanted to start over in a place she could call home. A place where she could
feel safe. Away from the family—the father—who had betrayed her trust.
Luckily for her, the previous tenant had sold
her, or rather her imaginary husband, the house with a good majority of his
belongings still inside. It had been an odd exchange, but she hadn’t been in
much of a position to ask questions.
The kitchen was on the small side, but cozy. A
nice pot-bellied stove sat at one edge and a tall counter-sized table had been
bolted to the wall. She’d only been settled in a few days and supplies were
already running thin. She’d need to make the trip into the small town of Stone
Creek for foodstuffs and other supplies soon, but dreaded the questions that
undoubtedly would be cast in her direction.
“Ferguson, you backstabbing coward, get out
here!” someone shouted from the yard.
Caspar barked.
Elizabeth shot up to her feet, wiped her hands on
her apron, and tiptoed toward the front of the house. She pulled the shotgun
from the corner and held it firmly as she pulled open the large, raggedy wooden
door, keeping the second, thinner door, shut.
“Mr. Ferguson no longer lives at this residence,”
she called out through the screen at the top of the outside door.
Three mounted men, who looked like they’d never
heard of a razor, fanned out in front of the porch steps. The hair on the back
of her neck stood on end and a feeling of unease settled in her stomach.
“And who might you be?” one of them asked as he dismounted,
handing the reins to his companion, then started cautiously up the stairs.
Elizabeth took a step back and aimed her gun at
the man’s chest.
“Whoa now, little lady. No one here’s gonna hurt
ya. We just wants to know how we can find old Ferguson.”
“I assure you I am unaware of your Mr. Ferguson’s
whereabouts. He sold me…and my husband the place. He said he was moving back
home. Somewhere back east. That is all I know.”
The man took the last step between them, right up
next to the door, his face nearly touching the screen. “Where are you from,
li’l lady?” he asked, his chin lifted as he stared down at her through the
screen, his eyes squinted in scrutiny.
She could lie, but her voice had already given
her away, and she made a mental note to use an American accent from here on.
“Wales,” she stated matter-of-factly. It wasn’t
exactly a lie. Her mother was from Wales.
The man scoffed. “What kind of a place is…Whales?”
His face contorted in a sneer and the others joined in his mockery.
She needed to get rid of them.
“If there is nothing else, gentlemen,” the word
sat loosely on her tongue, “I am quite busy.”
“Well, see now, Old Ferguson took somethin’ of
ours and we intend to get it back. You don’t need to worry your pretty little
head over that. If you’ll just let us in, we can take a look and then we’ll be
gone quick as a jack-rabbit.”
“I told you, I do not know anything about Mr.
Ferguson or to what you are referring. Now, it is time for you to move along.”
He laughed—an ugly, leering sort of sound.
“Did you hear that fellas? It’s time for us to
move along.”
The others joined his raucous display.
All of a sudden, the mock amusement left his face
and he pouted his lips and raised a brow as he leaned up against the door.
“It’s been a while since I been with any kind a
lady.” He picked something out of his teeth with his tongue and reached for the
door.
She cocked the gun, her jaw set firm and her eyes
narrowed.
Ewwww.
Caspar came bounding up to the door, barking
loudly. The man jumped backward, nearly tripping over his own feet as he
grasped for the rail to steady himself. The last thing she needed was to blow a
hole in the side of the house that she aimed to repair, but she was not about
to allow the brute anywhere near her either. Caspar’s presence emboldened her
and she narrowed her eyes at the man.
“I would not do that if I were you,” she said,
cold and smooth, with more confidence than she felt.
The man met her eyes, assessing her intentions as
he took an emboldened step toward her, raised an arm, and leaned against the
door.
“You say Ferg sold the place to you and your
husband?”
She nodded.
“Where is he? Your husband, I mean?”
“He…is on his way back from town. He will be here
at any moment. And I can assure you that he is not the kind you would want to
trifle with.”
“Well,” the lumbering oaf said, pushing away from
the door, “you tell your man that we want to speak to Ferguson or we’ll take
what he owes us out of this place.” He kicked at the railing pillar before descending
the stairs in a rush. “We’ll be back by the end of the week.”
Elizabeth had heard these types of threats all
too often, but never had they been directed at her. Were all American men out
west this ill-behaved? She’d dealt with hooligans like these before.
Worse even.
Her father employed many lowlifes to help him in
his shady business dealings back in England and she had fled to America in the
hopes that she would never have to see them again. She’d wanted, no, needed to
start over somewhere far away from her father and the pugilistic world she’d
grown up in. Had she traded one sort of brute for another?
Elizabeth had been alone for several months in
her travels—joining other groups as they’d made their way west, but this was
the first time in a long stretch she felt it. Loneliness encroached upon her
like night on a fading day. Inevitable. Inescapable. She stood, staring through
the screen door, long enough to watch the last man’s hat disappear beneath the
hillside before she wobbled backward and fell into the chair behind her,
breathing out her last ounce of courage.
Her man?
At least the lie had saved her. For now.
Elizabeth fanned herself and frowned at the
thought of the ruffians returning and destroying her new home. She’d spent a
good portion of her money buying this place. It wasn’t anything like the estate
in England, but it was hers—well, sort of. Legally, it belonged to a man who
didn’t exist, but no one had to know that information. She’d figure out a way
around it sooner or later, but for the moment, it would buy her some time.
After all, a woman couldn’t be Sterling Archer’s daughter and not learn a few
things about how to defend herself.
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Elizabeth Archer.
There is too much to do.” And with that, she pushed herself out of the chair,
set the shotgun in the corner, and went back to work.
Jab.
Jab.
Feint.
Jab.
William Redbourne ducked away from the ferocious
Norwegian brawler, whose width nearly doubled his own. A whirl of crisp air
curled around Will’s perspiring shoulders, hardening his skin to gooseflesh.
Cross.
Jab.
It had been a long time since he’d been in a ring
and he missed it. He missed the control, the heart-thumping surge of energy,
the taste of victory.
Will had worked alongside Sven on multiple
occasions on various jobs protecting high-profile passengers traveling west on
the stage. They’d started out as rivals, but had quickly become friends. But
even a friend needed to understand the lengths Will would go to in order to
protect his family—especially his little sister.
Jab.
Duck.
Uppercut.
“William Trey Redbourne!”
To his defeat, he allowed the sound of his
mother’s voice to work its way into his thoughts, taking his focus momentarily
from his opponent.
Too long.
BAM!
Pain sliced through his jaw, ricocheting through
his ears and spinning around in his head.
An elongated, loud whistle sounded.
The cheers and groans of the men in the room fell
silent as quickly as they had erupted. Will worked to recapture his focus,
raising his forearm for some semblance of protection and waited, but there was
no follow up blow. He reached out, barely able to keep his footing. It had been
a long time since he’d been clocked so hard, but why wasn’t the Norwegian
finishing the bout? He shook his head, clarity finally beginning to return.
“Mama?” he asked as the blur around his vision
cleared. He dropped his arm to his side and blinked, shaking his head once more.
Leah Redbourne stood in the center of the
makeshift arena like a wall between the two fighters. “The territory Marshal
has been in town inquiring about you and any fights that may have been
organized for local entertainment,” his mother said loud enough for the men in
the crowd to hear. “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if he’s already on his way
out here to the ranch. After all, my son has earned quite a reputation.” Though
her brow was raised in a challenge, there was a proud gleam in her eyes and
Will couldn’t help but grin. She wasn’t as angry as he’d expected her to be.