Bounty Hunter's Bride. Carol Finch
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.
Chapter Two
Cale was so shocked by the unexpected sight and feel of the female pressed up against him that he stood immobilized, his arm crushed to her heaving bosom, his pistol still crammed against her throat. He couldn’t say he’d been surprised often in his thirty-two years of hard living. But the woman’s unexpected arrival at his door sure ’nuff stunned the hell out of him.
Her fresh clean scent infiltrated his nostrils, and he had to try hard not to breathe her in. The feel of her lush body clasped familiarly to his was a vivid reminder that he hadn’t been with a woman since he couldn’t remember when.
He would have predicted that this refined, delicate-looking female would keel over and faint dead away—or at the very least, wail, whimper and beg for release. But she didn’t. The lady obviously had a stronger constitution than he would have presumed. He liked that about her, among other things—like the way she felt in his arms. But she was either amazingly courageous for coming here, or incredibly foolish. He didn’t know which.
Although the woman looked as harmless as a fly, he didn’t release her. She could be the distraction that preceded the springing of a trap. Some sneaky weasel could be lurking in the hall, waiting to blow Cale to smithereens.
“Skeet,” Cale whispered, then angled his head toward the partially opened door.
The dog trotted across the room and cut around the corner so sharply that he slammed into the woman’s legs before searching out trouble in the hall. A moment later he returned to sniff at the woman’s skirts.
No doubt Skeet was as unfamiliar with the perfumed scent of a citified woman as Cale was. Usually Cale’s reputation and profession worked as effectively as repellent to send decent women running in the opposite direction—often screaming. He was, after all, a hired gun, the circling vulture of Judge Parker’s brand of justice, and a half-breed to boot. Although the Cherokee had been labeled as one of the five civilized tribes in Indian Territory, most folks regarded all Indians—himself included—as heathens to be avoided and confined to reservations.
Which made it all the more baffling as to why this lovely, obviously well-bred woman was here.
“Whaddaya want, lady?” Cale growled menacingly.
She appeared so badly shaken that he figured he’d scared the wits clean out of her. Well, good. If she didn’t have more sense than to come knocking on the door of a man of his reputation, she needed a good scaring.
“I—I…have a p-proposition for you, sir,” she panted.
Thick