Carol Finch - Bounty Hunter's Bride

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.