Read the book: «Bounty Hunter's Bride»

Chapter One

Fort Smith, 1870s

“Oh, my God, what have I done?” Hanna Malloy whispered apprehensively as she stepped off the steamboat that had transported her upriver from New Orleans. She stared at the gloomy, overcast sky, which promised another spring rain shower at any moment and listened to the drone of insects that swarmed near the river. In dismay, she surveyed the muddy frontier outpost of Fort Smith. This was her salvation? This was the answer to her prayers and her reward for six months of careful planning to seize control of her future? What in heaven’s name could she have been thinking!

“Want some help with them bags, missy?”

Hanna stepped away from the foul-smelling miscreant who’d approached her while she was lost in thought. The shaggy-haired man with beady gray eyes flashed her a smile that was missing two front teeth.

“Thank you for your kind offer of assistance, but I can manage on my own,” she replied.

The short, pudgy brute eyed her carpetbags covetously, glanced this way and that, then lumbered off. Hanna had the unmistakable feeling that if there hadn’t been dozens of river boatmen, cowboys fresh from trail drives, gamblers and railroad workers bustling around her, the man would’ve snatched her bags and taken off at a dead run.

Hanna gulped and glanced uneasily around her. She wasn’t in the best of company at the moment. Indeed, in all her twenty years of existence, she’d never been in such bad company without the protection of a chaperon.

A sense of panic and disillusionment very nearly overwhelmed Hanna. For moral support and a sense of comfort, she clasped the golden locket—a childhood gift from her mother—that hung around her neck. Inhaling a bracing breath, she strode past the abandoned, stone-walled garrison that had been built on a sandstone bluff overlooking the Arkansas River.

“Oh, Lord,” Hanna muttered as she hiked toward the frontier town set a mere hundred yards from the eastern border of infamous Indian Territory—where thieves and murderers were reported to run rampant. There were no paved avenues, no luxurious hotels, no fashionable boutiques and no lights to illuminate the mud-caked streets. There were, however, Hanna noted, amazed, a string of thirty saloons, a newspaper office, one bank and several shops that provided basic necessities. Dozens of wagons, hacks and saddle horses waited beside the uneven boardwalks.

She’d planned and schemed, hoarded her monthly allowance and used the funds her departed mother had set aside for her wedding trousseau for this? Sweet merciful heavens! Even in her modest-priced lavender gown Hanna looked overdressed and out of place in comparison to the few women she passed on the street.

Hanna squared her shoulders, hitched up the hem of her dress and marched determinedly forward. She had to remind herself—repeatedly—why she’d turned her back on her aristocratic lifestyle, sacrificed all the opulent luxuries in New Orleans and left her father’s handpicked groom at the altar. She, who had what most women aspired to, had climbed out the window of a church filled to capacity, and made a mad dash to the riverboat that would deliver her to the precious freedom she’d craved—dreamed of—for years. For the sake of independence, she’d have to learn to adjust and accept life on different terms than what was familiar.

Hanna stepped onto the uneven boardwalk in front of a saloon to avoid the heavily rutted mud street. Tinkling piano music, masculine laughter and the smell of cigar smoke greeted her as she passed one tavern after another, to reach one of the ramshackle hotels in the offensive frontier town.

When a drunken ruffian stumbled from one of the saloons and rammed her broadside, Hanna clamped her arms around a rough-hewn post to prevent herself from being catapulted into the mud. Her carpetbags swung crazily from her fingertips.

“Well, what have we here?” the man slurred, licking his lips and leering at her through bloodshot eyes.

Thunder boomed overhead, signaling impending doom and threatening Hanna’s firm resolve. If she had any sense at all she’d reverse direction and hightail it back to the river to catch the next steamboat to New Orleans and the familiarity of life as she knew it. The thrill of reaching her personal promised land had been dashed, replaced with disillusionment and uncertainty.

“Why don’t you ’n me find us a room and git better ‘quainted?” the drunkard suggested, in what she presumed to be his most seductive voice. It fell miserably short of the mark.

Hanna shivered with repulsion and pushed herself away from the splintered post. “Excuse me, sir,” she said stiffly. “I’m on my way to meet my fiancé.” That was a half-truth, probably one of many she’d have to tell before she got where she was going.

Before the scruffy-looking man could grab her arm, Hanna sailed off at a fast clip, praying she could reach a hotel before she was waylaid again. Even in her haste she noted she was attracting entirely too much attention from the men who milled about on the boardwalks. Sweet mercy! The ratio of men to women in this town must be so lopsided that males salivated at the mere sight of a female, Hanna decided. She made a mental note to purchase another gown that downplayed her femininity the first chance she got. All this unwanted attention was making her nervous and spoiling her attempt to maintain a low profile.

The last thing she wanted was to find a string of men trailing behind her. She’d endured quite enough of men and their hidden agendas—not to mention their more obvious intentions toward her person. Because of her wealth and position in New Orleans society, she’d dealt with more than her share of gold diggers and opportunists who were anxious to attach themselves to her family’s fortune. And her father, damn him, had paraded a string of handpicked suitors past her, then finally delivered his ultimatum when she kept stalling and found fault with every one.

The thought of her domineering father stiffened her resolve and brought her chin up to a determined angle. Despite the crash of thunder and the sudden downpour that formed a curtain of rain along the overhang of the porch roof, Hanna assured herself that she had what she wanted. Now she was in control of her life and her destiny.

The sacrifices she’d made to reach Fort Smith, the hardships she might face during her exodus, were worth every trial and tribulation. At long last she was free of her father’s control. He was not making another decision for her, not dictating to her ever again. This was her declaration of independence from Walter Malloy, the powerful, influential shipping magnate who believed that his only daughter was a pawn to be played to his advantage.

Walter believed that money could buy anything and that every man had his price. During the steamboat ride upriver, Hanna had made a pact with herself that she would turn her father’s cold-blooded philosophy on him, to ensure she broke his control over her forevermore. She’d abandoned all attempts to please him, to earn his love and respect. She had spent years trying to gain his attention and approval, but he seemed loath to spend more than a few moments looking in her direction before turning away. In his eyes she would never be the beloved son he’d lost to illness.

Therefore, Hanna had left her life of sophistication, refinement and elegance behind, to find herself a husband. Her idea of the perfect mate, not her father’s. Hanna had mentally listed her qualifications for an ideal husband. He would be an intimidating man himself—not one easily cowed by her father’s booming commands, nor easily swayed by bribes, which bent so many people to her father’s fierce will.

Hanna glanced up to note the wooden sign that indicated she’d reached a hotel. If she were in New Orleans she wouldn’t have set foot inside such a shabby establishment. But this wasn’t New Orleans and she wanted nothing more than to take refuge from the rain and the crowd of men that swaggered along behind her. She was tired of being ogled, and weary from her journey. Not to mention the emotional turmoil she’d undergone after her father announced that she would wed whom he decreed, when he decreed and where.

The thought sent frissons of frustration undulating through her. Hanna definitely needed a secluded place to rest, to unwind, to regroup before she reviewed her checklist for the husband she hoped to acquire quickly and expediently. After she caught her breath, she would inquire around this muddy, backward frontier town to locate a man who’d agree to share his name, for a substantial price. Hanna would be her father’s daughter, use his own tactics, for the first and last time.

After a brief wedding ceremony, the groom could go his way and she would go her own way—west. She’d heard it said that out West a woman wasn’t as restricted by social expectations as in the East. Out West was where free-spirited individuals migrated, to live by their own rules and establish new lives for themselves.

Surely somewhere in this outpost of three thousand souls she could find one man who was intimidating and strong-willed enough to withstand her father. A man who didn’t stay in one place long enough for Walter Malloy to track him down and offer him scads of money to have the marriage annulled, before dragging his daughter home to wed that stuffy, pompous aristocrat he had chosen.

Hanna winced, remembering her confrontation with her father. He’d boomed at her in that deep, foghornlike voice, shouting that Hanna had rejected the very last suitor, and that she would become Mrs. Louis Beauchamp—of the highly prestigious Beauchamps who could trace their family lineage back to the titled gentry of France. The merger of two wealthy shipping magnates would ensure a monopoly the likes of which New Orleans had never seen.

In outraged fury, Hanna had refused, insisting that if Walter was so immensely fond of Louis Beauchamp—of the highly respected Beauchamps—then he should marry the man.

That had been a mistake of gigantic proportions. Walter’s face had turned the color of raw liver and he’d bellowed that there would be a wedding and a merger and Hanna would accept his decisions, like the dutiful, grateful daughter she was supposed to be.

From that day forward, a chaperon—Rutherford J. Wiley—was assigned to her each time she left their sprawling plantation on the Mississippi or ventured from their elegant town house in New Orleans. According to Walter, Hanna would have no opportunity whatsoever to defy his decree.

Or so he thought, she mused, smiling triumphantly as she made a beeline toward the registration desk of the hotel. She’d taken advantage of the only window of opportunity her father had left open to her the past few months. The window in the room where she was to dress in her wedding gown before Walter walked her down the aisle to become the bride of Louis Beauchamp—of the proud and pompous Beauchamps. That window had been her salvation. Hanna had been prepared for that moment of opportunity, had planned for it, right down to the last detail.

She imagined that her father had cursed several blue streaks when he’d realized she’d escaped. She would’ve liked to see the look on his face when he realized she’d defied him and fled the city posthaste. If she knew her father—and she knew him well—he would spare no expense in hiring the most qualified detectives—the Pinkertons, no doubt—to haul her home.

But it would be too late. She’d have a husband and she’d be long gone by the time Walter discovered where she was and what she’d done to counter his insufferable dictates.

“May I help you, miss?”

Jostled from her thoughts, Hanna glanced up to see a bewhiskered and bespectacled man with a shiny bald head staring at her. “Yes, sir. I would like a room, please. Your best,” she added, certain the best Fort Smith had to offer would fall miserably short of the luxuries to which she’d grown accustomed.

The proprietor—James Jensen, according to an engraved wooden nameplate on the counter—smiled kindly at her. “I’m sorry, miss. I’m afraid second best is all I have to offer. Our most spacious suite was rented an hour ago to a man who’s become legendary in these parts. He’s one of Judge Parker’s most effective and most reliable, ya see.” James leaned forward confidentially. “By nature and profession, he’s not a man folks want to cross. But he and his dog saved my life one dark winter night when four bloodthirsty hooligans dragged me into the alley to pistol-whip me and steal the money I was taking to the bank. Now we have a standing agreement. When he’s in town he receives the best accommodations I have to offer. Free of charge.”

Hanna was intrigued. The reputation of Judge Isaac Parker—the Hanging Judge, as he’d been dubbed—was known far and wide. This living legend who rode for Parker might be exactly the kind of man she was looking for.

“He’s a deputy marshal?” she asked hopefully.

James smiled wryly. “When necessary. Bounty hunter mostly, though. You might say he’s the judge’s last resort when all civilized methods of law and order fail. This gunfighter takes the most difficult cases and deals with the worst desperadoes who hide out in Indian Territory. ‘Course, being a half-breed Cherokee, he knows every inch of that seventy-four thousand square mile territory, every secluded haunt where outlaws like to hole up with their ill-gotten gains.”

“So, you’re saying this accomplished bounty hunter, and sometimes deputy marshal, is in and out of town frequently?” she asked with growing interest.

“Mostly out,” James reported as he turned the registration book so she could sign her name. “He’s only in town once a month or so to deliver prisoners, testify at trials and collect his rewards.”

In other words, this legendary tracker and shootist was sent out to apprehend the most vicious, barbaric criminals who preyed on society. He risked his life on a daily basis for sizable rewards.

Anticipation sizzled through Hanna. From the sound of it, luck was on her side. Within an hour of reaching Fort Smith she had a prime candidate for a husband. He was more or less a gun for hire who provided a necessary service. If he were accustomed to dealing with deadly killers on a regular basis he wouldn’t bat an eyelash at confronting her blustering father. Walter Malloy would be no more intimidating to this fearless gunfighter than a buzzing mosquito.

“Most of the deputy marshals ride across Indian Territory in groups of two to four, pulling a wagon that serves as mobile headquarters, office, kitchen and jail,” James added. “But not Cale Elliot. He and his dog travel alone, and that’s the way he likes it.”

Cale Elliot, she mused as she signed a fictitious name on the register to throw her father’s detectives off her trail. And they would come looking for her; she didn’t doubt that for a minute. By then, Hanna would have a wedding ring on her finger and a marriage license in hand.

When she’d originally devised her scheme to escape her father’s control, she had considered seeking out a condemned convict for a husband. But it didn’t take her long to realize she needed a live body. If she were a widow her father could easily tote her back to New Orleans to wed Louis Beauchamp. No, Hanna needed a real live husband, and this half-breed bounty hunter sounded as if he fit the bill perfectly. She could be wed immediately and disappear before her father tracked her down.

“Here ya go, Miss…” James glanced down at her signature “…Rawlins. Turn right at the top of the stairs. Your room is two doors down on the left.”

“Is my room near the bounty hunter’s?” she asked eagerly.

Assuming Hanna was hoping for nearby protection, James smiled, then glanced over her head to note the raft of men who were hovering in the doorway to cast their eyes on the attractive new arrival. “He’ll be right across the hall from you. He’s not one for idle chitchat, but if trouble arises, he’s the man you’ll want on your side.”

Mrs. Cale Elliot, she mused. That had a nice ring to it….

A worrisome thought furrowed her brows. What if Mr. Elliot was already married? Perhaps he had a wife who lived in the Cherokee Nation.

Don’t go borrowing complications, she chastised herself as she accepted the key from James. Hanna decided to approach Mr. Elliot with her proposition as soon as she had time to freshen up. If he was married he might be able to recommend another deputy marshal who would suit her purposes just as well.

“You won’t have to walk far to enjoy a fine meal,” James informed her, nodding his bald head toward the adjoining restaurant. “My wife and her sister are fine cooks. Best in town, in fact. You’ve come to the right place for a clean, tidy room and mouthwatering meals.”

“Thank you, sir. I’m sure the room will be splendid and the meals exceptional,” Hanna replied as she hoisted up her satchels, then headed for the steps.

“I’ll call one of the servants to carry your bags,” James offered.

“No need for that. I’ll manage on my own.” From now on Hanna intended to be self-reliant. It was her luggage, after all, and she’d carry it herself.

She could feel male eyes boring into her back as she climbed the creaking staircase. For once the tiresome attention of men didn’t annoy her. She was too preoccupied with the prospect of locating a suitable husband. She had important matters on her mind and was one step closer to the protection granted by marriage, to enjoying independence, freedom and living her life how and where she chose. Soon she’d have the opportunity to explore her hidden talents, to discover what she excelled at, rather than being stifled by her father’s demands and expectations.

Did she have a knack for writing? A talent for painting? Could she become a noted clothing designer and seamstress? An actress or singer? The possibilities shimmered before her like a pot of gold at the end of her personal rainbow.

She’d head west to find herself, to find her own niche. Without her family’s well-known name to raise eyebrows and attract the attention of opportunists itching to latch on to an heiress, she could be herself for once in her life. Hanna doubted she’d discover love somewhere beyond the notorious Indian Territory. As far as she could tell, love didn’t exist. It was a whimsical notion and she obviously didn’t possess lovable qualities. If she had, her own father would have cared deeply for her. But no matter what, she would not become a trophy wife, the window dressing for Louis Beauchamp—a man who thought and behaved like a younger version of her father. A man who wanted her only for her looks, social prestige and wealth, not for the person she was inside.

Hanna halted on the landing to catch her breath, and took note of the sign that read No Animals Allowed. She hiked up the second set of steps and veered right. She sincerely hoped her quest for the perfect husband took her no farther than across the hall.

After the ceremony she would wire the family lawyer to announce she’d met the necessary requirements to take control of the trust fund her mother had bequeathed to her—money her father and Louis Beauchamp couldn’t touch or control. She’d take a stagecoach to cross Indian Territory, then Texas—and beyond. She wouldn’t look back. Instead she’d look forward, with great anticipation, to her freedom and her future.

Cale Elliot draped his saddlebags over the back of a chair, then picked up the whiskey bottle from the table. James Jensen never failed to have a room ready and waiting when news arrived that he and his prisoners had returned to Fort Smith. After he had saved James from a vicious beating, the man had become his instant and steadfast friend. Which was a good thing, because Cale didn’t have many of them. His line of work alienated folks on both sides of the law, and his tumbleweed lifestyle provoked wary speculation rather than friendship.

Cale tossed down a drink, feeling the whiskey burn from his gullet to his empty belly. Since this was a private celebration of sorts, Cale helped himself to another gulp. After five frustrating years of posing questions and following leads, he’d learned the whereabouts of the man who’d killed his half brother and sister-in-law. Cale had finally stumbled onto the vital information, and feelings of long-awaited revenge roiled inside him.

Although Joe Horton had dropped out of sight in Kansas, Arkansas and Indian Territory, he’d apparently resurfaced in Texas, using the assumed name of Otis Pryor. One of the fugitives Cale had interrogated during the trek back to Fort Smith had supplied the information in exchange for leniency. Of course, Cale would’ve offered the outlaw the moon to entice him to spill his guts about Otis Pryor. And indeed, Cale would have a word with Judge Parker before Wilbur Burton went on trial, as promised. But Cale’s “word” wouldn’t be a kind one. The ruthless son of a bitch had murdered two elderly Cherokees and stolen their livestock. The only message Cale intended to give the judge was that justice damn well better prevail.

Cale set the bottle down with a soft thunk, then scrubbed his hand over his bearded jaw. He desperately needed a hot, soaking bath and two days of uninterrupted sleep. The three cutthroats he’d hauled to justice had done their damnedest to outrun him and the best tracking dog west of the Mississippi—maybe even the best in these entire United States. Cale and Skeet had run themselves ragged for three weeks, searching for clues and questioning witnesses about the crimes of murder and robbery.

It had taken a hair-raising firefight and a knock-down-drag-out brawl to convince the fugitives to surrender. In the end, Cale had manacled his prisoners and delivered them to the jail in one piece—more or less. But he’d come damn close to having his head blown off by the blast of a sawed-off shotgun. His own bullets had been aimed to slow down his assailants, not kill them outright. Judge Parker preferred to have criminals brought to trial. Sometimes Cale had little choice and was forced to return with his fugitives jackknifed over the backs of horses. But he had no intention of showing any mercy when he encountered Otis Pryor. An eye for an eye, he mused bitterly.

Unfortunately, the scuttlebutt was that Otis had surrounded himself with a small army of hired guns and had forced out the previous owners of a ranch with death threats. He’d used the money he’d stolen from Cale’s half brother, Gray Cloud, and several other hapless victims to stock his ranch with stolen cattle and horses, and regularly sent out his gang of thieves to steal more livestock to increase the herds.

Cale couldn’t storm the fortress with pistols blazing. No, he had to devise an ingenious scheme to avenge the deaths that had taken all that was left of his family. For years, Cale had been fighting other men’s battles for them, righting wrongs that had gone too long unpunished. Now it was his turn, his time to seek personal justice. But first he needed an effective plan to infiltrate Otis Pryor’s stronghold and sneak past the corrupt law officers that were in that bastard’s pocket.

Skeet’s quiet growl put Cale’s senses on high alert. The dog had been catching a nap under the table. Suddenly, Skeet laid back his ears and bared his teeth. Cale reflexively slid his Colt from its holster and inched silently toward the door to pounce on whoever thought to pounce on him unaware.

This wouldn’t be the first time someone tried to sneak up and blow him to kingdom come. That adage about outlaws being thick as thieves was right on the mark. Cale had lost track of the number of times some hooligan tried to bushwhack him for jailing a fellow gang member. He couldn’t recall the number of death threats against him.

In fact, less than a year earlier, a vengeful gang member had broken down the door of this very room and tried to shoot Cale while he was lounging in his tub. Cale couldn’t even enjoy a leisurely bath without some spiteful son of a bitch attacking with a pistol or dagger.

When Skeet bolted to his feet, prepared to bound toward the door, Cale signaled for the burly beast to hold his ground. Cale positioned himself beside the door and listened to the faint rap. Before the unwanted visitor had time to react, Cale jerked open the door, wrapped his arm diagonally across the intruder’s chest and rammed the pistol barrel beneath his chin.

Only it wasn’t a man; it was a woman.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she squawked in surprise.

“What the hell…?” Cale croaked as he appraised the shapely bundle of womanly curves and soft flesh that he held clamped in his arms.