Victoria Bylin - Wyoming Lawman

“I love you, too, darlin’,” Matt replied.

He galloped Sarah into her bedroom, tucked her against the feather tick, sat on a stool by her bed and opened Mother Goose. He could see the picture of Cinderella with her blond curls and blue eyes.

Sarah rolled to her side. “I think she looks like Miss Pearl.”

So did Matt. “A little.”

“A lot.” Sarah folded her hands across her chest. Then she did something Matt had never seen her do. She closed her eyes and mouthed words he couldn’t hear.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I’m praying.”

Matt had no such inclination. A long time ago he’d prayed prayers, but not anymore. That boy had turned into a man who had to live with his mistakes. He couldn’t change the past, but he could stop others from making the same mistakes. That’s why he’d do anything to protect the innocent…anything except put Sarah at risk.

“Daddy?”

“Yes, darlin’?”

“I’m praying for a mama.”

fell in love with God and her husband at the same time. It started with a ride on a big red motorcycle and a date to see a Star Trek movie. A recent graduate of UC Berkeley, Victoria had been seeking that elusive “something more” when Michael rode into her life. Neither knew it, but they were both reading the Bible.

Five months later they got married and the blessings began. They have two sons and have lived in California and Virginia. Michael’s career allowed Victoria to be both a stay-at-home mom and a writer. She’s living a dream that started when she read her first book and thought, “I want to tell stories.” For that gift, she will be forever grateful.

Feel free to drop Victoria an e-mail at VictoriaBylin@aol.com or visit her Web site at www.victoriabylin.com.

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Unless the Lord builds the house, its builders labor in vain. Unless the Lord watches over the city, the watchmen stand guard in vain.

In vain you rise early and stay up late, toiling for food to eat—for he grants sleep to those he loves.

—Psalms 127:1–2

To my husband, Michael,

For his patience, support and sense of humor.

Thank you, Bears, for helping with the bad guys.

Only a true good guy would have your wisdom.

Love you!

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Epilogue

Letter to Reader

Questions for Discussion

Cheyenne, Wyoming

October 1875

Pearl Oliver stepped out of the carriage in front of Dryer’s Hotel and glanced down the boardwalk in search of her cousin. Instead of spotting Carrie, she saw a little girl with hair as pale as her own. Pulled loose from two braids and wisping around the child’s face, it glinted white in the sun. Pearl’s mother had told her daughter that a woman’s hair was her crowning glory. Pearl knew from experience it could also be a curse.

She turned back to the carriage intending to lift her son from her father’s arms. Before he could hand the baby to her, she heard an excited cry.

“Mama!”

Expecting to see another mother, she looked back at the little girl. What she saw stopped her heart. The child, with her pinafore flapping and a rag doll hooked in her elbow, was charging across the street. Behind her, Pearl saw a freight wagon about to make the turn. The girl hadn’t looked before stepping off the boardwalk, and the driver wouldn’t see her until he rounded the corner.

“Stop!” Pearl cried.

The girl ran faster. “Mama, wait!”

Unaware of the child, the freight driver shouted at the team of six mules to pick up their pace. As the beasts surged forward, Pearl hiked up her skirt and ran down the boardwalk. “Stay there!” she cried. “I’m coming for you.”

Instead of stopping, the child ran faster. The mules gained momentum and the wagon swayed. Pearl cried for the driver to stop, but he couldn’t hear her over the rattle of the wheels. The child, now halfway across the street, saw only the woman she believed to be her mother.

Praying she wouldn’t slip in the mud, Pearl dashed in front of the mules, each one snorting and chuffing with the weight of the load. The driver cursed and hauled back on the reins, but the wagon kept coming.

So did the child.

So did Pearl.

She could smell the mules. Puddles, mirroring the clouds, shook as the animals lumbered forward. With more speed than she rightly possessed, she dashed in front of the beasts, hooked her arm around the child and pulled her back from the wagon. Together they fell in a tangle of skirts and pinafores with Pearl on her belly. Her knees stung from hitting the dirt and she’d muddied her dress.

She didn’t give a whit about her knees, but the dress mattered. She planned to wear it to her interview at Miss Marlowe’s School for Girls. A woman in her position had to always look her best. One wrong impression and she’d be worse off than she’d been in Denver.

With her heart pounding, she raised her head and looked at the child. She saw eyes as blue as her own and hair that could have grown on her own head. The girl looked to be five years old, but there was nothing childlike about her expression as she clutched her doll to her chest. Like Pearl, she had the look of someone who’d learned not to hope…at least not too much.

Her voice squeaked. “Mama?”

“No, sweetie,” Pearl said. “I just look like her.”

The child’s mouth drooped. “You do.”

Pearl rocked back to her knees. Reaching down, she cupped the girl’s chin. “Are you hurt?”

“No.”

“What’s your name?”

“Sarah with an H.”

Pearl couldn’t help but smile. “You must be learning your letters.”

“I am. I go to school.”

Pearl wondered if she attended Miss Marlowe’s School, but other questions were more pressing. She pushed to her feet and offered Sarah her hand. “Who takes care of you?”

“My daddy.”

“Let’s find him,” Pearl replied.

Sarah looked at the ground. “He’s gonna be mad at me.”

Pearl had an angry thought of her own. What kind of father left a five-year-old alone on a busy street? The more she thought about the circumstances, the more irritated she became. Sarah could have been killed or maimed for life. Pearl’s problems paled in comparison, but she’d just ruined her best dress. Pale blue with white cuffs and silver buttons, it now had mud stains. She had another dress she could wear to the interview, but she’d stitched this one with her friends in Denver. The love behind it gave her confidence.