Victoria Bylin - The Bounty Hunter's Bride

Beau lost his smile. “I got word that Clay Johnson’s in the area. I’m still hunting for him.”

“Oh, Beau.”

“I was closing in when I stopped to see Patrick.” Beau shook his head. “I ended up with a farm and a bunch of cows.”

“And three little girls.”

Adie’s voice held a lilt. Beau appreciated her kindness but feared the glint in her eyes. Orphaned at the age of twelve, she’d suffered frightful abuses before settling with Josh and their adopted son. She treasured her family and wanted everyone to have the same joy. Until Lucy’s death, Beau had felt the same way.

Adie cut into his thoughts. “Those girls need a home. What are you going to do about it?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

“You could stay here and raise them.”

“Forget it. I’ve got a call on my life and I’m following it.”

Adie’s face hardened. “You’re talking about Johnson.”

“Of course.”

“Oh, Beau.”

“What?”

Her eyes misted. “You’ve got to set that burden down.”

How could she say such a thing? She’d laid out Lucy’s body in the house he’d rented because his wife had liked the porch swing. That morning, Lucy had tossed up her breakfast and had gone to the doctor. Later Beau learned she’d been carrying their child. She’d put on the pink dress—his favorite—to tell him the news. Behind Adie, he saw Miss Baxter in her pink dress peeking through the red curtains. The colors turned his stomach.

Adie wrinkled her nose, then playfully fanned the air. “Go take a bath. You smell like a bear in April.”

Beau grinned. “That good?”

“Worse!”

He appreciated the change in tone. “I’ve got business in town. I’ll be back in an hour.”

“Keep an eye out for Josh,” she added.

Beau wanted to see his old friend but feared what the Reverend would say. The man dug deep, pulling up weeds by the roots and laying them bare for a man to see for himself. Adie had a different way. She planted seeds and expected flowers. If a man was thirsty, she gave him sweet tea. If he was hungry, she filled his belly. Beau had never known a more generous woman…or a more dangerous one. Watching Adie love the whole wretched world made him want a garden of his own.

Beau tipped his hat to her, saw that Miss Baxter had left her post at the window, turned and headed to town. As he trudged along the path, he thought of his early years in Denver. He’d been a deputy sheriff when Joshua Blue had ridden into town with a Bible and an attitude. Before he knew it, Beau had been sitting in a saloon that doubled for a church on Sunday mornings. A year later, he’d met Lucy and married her. After her passing, Adie had fed him meals until he couldn’t stand another bite and had lit out of town.

He wanted to leave now but couldn’t. Patrick’s girls needed him and so did Miss Baxter. What drove a woman to travel a thousand miles to marry a stranger? Beau didn’t know, but he knew how it felt to hurt.

As he stepped onto the boardwalk, he caught a whiff of himself. Adie was right about that bath, but first he had to visit the Silver River Saloon. With a little luck, he’d pick up news about Clay Johnson. Beau disliked visiting saloons, but it had to be done. Men like Johnson didn’t hang out at the general store, nor did they go to church on Sundays, or to socials where men and women rubbed elbows and made friends. Neither did Beau.

With his duster flapping, he strode to Scott’s office to fetch the wagon, then drove back down the street, crossed the railroad tracks and found the saloon between a second mining office and a gunsmith. He stepped inside and surveyed the dimly lit room. Empty stools lined the bar. A poker table sat in the corner with a battered deck of cards but no players. He had the place to himself, so he stepped to the bar where a man with graying hair was wiping the counter.

“What’ll it be?” the barkeep asked.

“Coffee.”

The man set down a mug. Numb to the bitterness, Beau took a long drag of the overcooked brew. It splashed in his belly but didn’t give him the usual jolt, a sign he was more tired than he knew. Grimacing, he set down the half-empty cup.

“You’re a stranger here,” the barkeep said.

“Sure enough.”

“In town on business?”

“Just passing through.” Lonely men liked to talk. Beau hoped this man was one of them.

The barkeep lifted a shot glass out of a tub and dried it with his apron. “If you need work, the mines are hiring.”

“I’m looking for someone.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“His name’s Clay Johnson. He’s about six feet with dark hair and a crooked nose.” Beau wished he’d been the one to break it.

When the man raised a brow, Beau slid a coin across the counter. The barkeep slipped it into his pocket. “I’ve seen that fellow.”

“In town?”

“About two weeks ago.”

Before Patrick’s death. “Any idea where he was headed?”

“None. He bought five bottles of whiskey, opened one here and walked out with the rest. I haven’t seen him since.”

“Anyone with him?”

“Two men.”

“What did they look like?”

“I didn’t pay much attention. I noticed Johnson because of his nose.” The barkeep set down the glass and held out his hand. “I’m Wallace O’Day. I run a clean business.”

Beau shook the man’s hand. “Beau Morgan.”

“Bounty hunter?”

“I’m not in it for the money.”

Wallace picked up another glass. “This Johnson fellow. Is he wanted?”

“Yes.” By Beau for Lucy’s murder and the U.S. government for stealing horses. Of the two, the government would be kinder.

The barkeep glanced at the dregs in Beau’s cup. “Want some more?”

“No, thanks.” Beau slapped down a sawbuck. “If you hear anything about Johnson, remember it.”

Wallace folded the money. “How do I find you?”

“I’ll be back.”

Beau left the saloon with thoughts of Johnson rattling like broken glass. He saw Lucy again, felt the wetness of her bodice and smelled the blood. He blinked the picture away, but the rage stayed in his blood, swimming like a thousand fish. Needing to get rid of the slithering, he walked two blocks to an emporium where he bought fresh clothes, then headed back to the bathhouse across from the Silver River.

As he neared the splintery building, one of the oldest in Castle Rock, he smelled steam, soap and dirt. The mix reminded him of a simple truth. He could get clean on the outside, but the inside was another matter. Until Clay Johnson met his end, Beau’s hate would grow with every breath he took.

Weary to the bone, he stepped into a drafty building with a high ceiling. He paid a Chinese man to fill a tub, then undressed and slipped into the hot water. As he dunked his head, Beau thought about Clay Johnson. They’d been playing this game for a long time now. At first, Clay had run hard and far. Beau had nearly trapped him in Durango, but he’d fled to the Colorado Plateau and into the desert. Beau had picked up the man’s trail later in Raton but had lost him near Cimarron. A year had passed before he’d gotten word of an outlaw gang raiding ranches in Wyoming.

Beau had taken a train to Laramie. He’d arrived in time for a trial that didn’t include Johnson. In exchange for prison in place of the gallows, one of Clay’s cohorts had told the authorities where to find him. Beau had ridden out that day, but Clay had already vanished into the mountains.

With the memory haunting him, Beau raised his head out of the water and wiped his face. He’d been so close. A day sooner and his search would have ended. Instead, Clay had gotten word of Beau’s presence and left him a message at the local saloon.