Her Outlaw Heart
Samantha Harte
Copyright
Diversion Books
A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.
443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008
New York, NY 10016
www.DiversionBooks.com
Copyright © 2016 by Samantha Harte
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
For more information, email [email protected]
First Diversion Books edition February 2016
ISBN: 978-1-62681-925-2
Also by Samantha Harte
Cactus Rose
Summersea
Kiss of Gold
Autumn Blaze
Snows of Craggmoor
Vanity Blade
Angel
Timberhill
Sweet Whispers
Hurricane Sweep
For Laura, Robert and Kathleen,
Justen, Jason, and Emma.
Wishing everything good for my dear ones.
A very special thank you to my agent Abby Saul whose hard work made all this possible. And my editor Randall Klein for his expert advice. You make dreams come true.
One
The Wyoming Territory
1879
Jodee woke to the shattering sound of gunfire outside the cabin. Her first thought was to jump to her feet and run, but she didn't remember where she was. She dragged her father’s heavy pistol from the tangled folds of the knapsack pillowing her head and scrambled into a corner.
Heart racing, she watched her father’s long-time friend, Cloyd Rike, and his three mangy sons awaken with curses and scuttle from their blankets to crouch beneath the single window. It was scarcely dawn. Now Jodee remembered—she was hiding with these men. High in the mountains. Too stupid to know what else to do with herself.
And her father…her father was dead.
One of the Rikes fell back, shot dead not five feet from where Jodee huddled in the litter of the abandoned cabin. Covering her face, she screamed until her throat went raw. She shouldn’t be here. This shouldn't be happening to her. When the gunfire stopped abruptly, all four Rikes lay dead. Jodee couldn't take it in. She clenched her eyes shut until they ached. She felt sick, and dizzy. What should she do?
She heard Burl Tangus, the worst of the bunch, cussing across the room. Startled to think he was still alive, her eyes sprang wide. She saw him crab on his belly toward the far corner where the floor was rotted through. Headlong, he dove through the hole. That runty weasel. He was getting away! She reared up—
Something slammed her against the wall.
As Jodee’s mind cleared, a burning sensation in her right shoulder claimed her attention. It felt like a hot coal under her skin. Her stomach lurched. She went limp and gave out with a moan. Weakness spread over her like hot water. At the sound of approaching voices and cautious footsteps outside the cabin, her attention snapped into focus with a stab of terror. There was no place to hide. Whoever was out there would kill her, too.
The cabin door flew wide and slammed against the wall. A brilliant slice of dawn sunlight fell across the gritty floorboards, stinging Jodee’s eyes and outlining dead outlaws lying all around. In the far corner, the jagged hole in the floor lay in shadow. With sick determination, Jodee steeled herself for the final shot. It would be all right, she told herself. She'd join her father in the hereafter. The nightmare of her existence would be over.
As the silhouette of a tall, broad-shouldered man filled the doorway, Jodee's heart leapt with dread. Gingerly he stepped inside, pistol drawn, its long barrel glinting as he moved closer. A shiny badge on his grey shirtfront showed behind his open coat front and stopped Jodee’s breath in her throat.
Lawman.
She scrabbled backward and her shoulder blossomed with heart-catching pain. Several men crowded in behind the lawman, gawking at her as she cringed on the floor. Posse, she thought. Go ahead. Kill me! Get it over with!
The lawman crouched in front of her, his face only an arm’s length away. Jodee didn’t have the strength to lift her father's pistol to shoot him. She saw dark brows draw low over shadowed eyes. A two-day growth of whiskers darkened his jaw. They had been following from the nearest town most likely. That must be how they found them so fast. His rosy lips tightened around a puzzled frown. He was trying to figure out what she was doing there. That was a face to remember, Jodee thought, growing light-headed. His cheeks bunched upward as if he didn’t like what he was looking at.
Plucking the pistol from her limp grasp, he shoved it into his gun belt. Then he tugged off her slouchy hat. She felt her long hair tumble free. Squinting, he smoothed his hand over her head. She pulled away. The gesture made her throat tighten. Was there any hope he might show mercy?
Glancing at her britches that had become snug over the years, and her broken-toed boots that were too big for her feet, the lawman cupped her chin and turned it into the dawn light for a better look. His touch stung her with its tenderness. She met his puzzled stare and saw flecks of gold and black in the dark coffee brown color. Eyes full of worry. Eyes fraught with loneliness.
What did he say? She couldn’t hear anything. Her ears were ringing. She felt too exhausted to think, too sick to fend off his fingers tugging aside her shirt collar where the pain blazed. Her head fell back. Her eyes drifted closed. She smelled blood. Dear God, she thought. She was gunshot.
After a few minutes, Jodee felt herself being gathered into the lawman’s arms and lifted. Tarnation, that hurt. This was more than she could bear, being found in this place, with these dead outlaws, and gunshot, too. The lawman had trouble steadying her as he grabbed up her knapsack and blanket.
Outside, in the golden brilliance of morning, Jodee gazed at the lawman holding her so close, at his chestnut hair curling beneath his broad-brimmed hat, at the strong sunburned neck. And those eyes glancing at her as he picked his way across the rocky dooryard back to horses and men waiting on the trail. Honest eyes, not pity-me eyes like her father’s. Not squinty, scheming weasel eyes like Burl’s.
But this was a lawman. Maybe he was good. Maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he wouldn’t hurt her. With eyes like that, he couldn’t. Could he? She let herself fall limp in his arms.
Thirty feet behind the cabin alongside a steep, boulder-choked creekbed, Burl Tangus crouched behind dry brush and watched the posse lash the Rikes belly-down over their saddle horses. All four dead. That was a helluva morning’s work for one lawman, a deputy, and six deputized storekeeps, he thought.
Like shootin’ fish in a barrel. Didn’t get me, though, did you, lawman?
Burl should’ve cleared out in the night, but his horse needed rest. Now they’d flushed him so fast he’d gone down the hole without his loot bag. It was tucked under the corner of girlie-girl’s blanket. Soon as the posse cleared out, he’d go back—
He clenched his jaw, groaned, and instantly relaxed his bite. The whole side of his face ached. All the way up to his hairline. Burl wished he’d had time to take back the Rikes’ shares. Damn fools, bobbing across their saddles like carcasses. He saw the lawman carry girlie-girl from the cabin. Was she dead? Her knapsack dangled from his elbow, her blanket trailed in the dirt.
Damn! Burl stopped himself from jumping up. He pressed a fist to his jaw. Goddamn! Two deputies propped her upright while the lawman mounted his horse and then took her onto his lap. Burl half stood for a better look. Was she alive? Any chance she had seen his loot
bag and kicked it into the hole?
Burl dropped down, breathing hard, his thoughts racing. His head swam with curses. Every part of this damnable robbery had gone wrong. He should’ve cut out, but Lee and Witt had been behind him, making sure Jodee followed. Old man Rike and Mose with the strong box had been in front, leading the way. They would’ve killed him rather than let him make off with the loot he’d taken off the passengers.
But when they found the cabin to hide in and started to divide the loot…Burl shook his head. Unbelievable. Groping in his pants pocket, his fingers touched the slip of paper he’d taken from the pocketbook. Maybe he didn’t bust that snake-bit safe open, but he knew a combination code when he saw one written down and hidden under a leather flap. Didn’t see me palm that, did you, boys? He handed over the cash to be divided like he was so fair. Someday he’d stroll into that Ashton Babcock Stage Office and open ’er up like a can of peaches.
It felt like somebody was hitting him in the face with a rock.
He rubbed his jaw. It was that cash box tucked down in the strong box that had clinched it. Nobody had seen the rich gal clutching the ribbon around her neck. Burl pulled the ribbon from his shirt pocket and kissed the key hanging from it. Peeking around a boulder, he watched the posse start single file down the steep, narrow trail. Those stupid Rikes had been snoring like bears when he had unlocked the cash box during the night. What the hell had that rich gal been doing, traveling with so much cash?
Hunkering down, forcing himself to remain calm, Burl waited. When all was quiet, he made his way back up the boulder-choked creekbed. No need to squeeze back up through the rotting floor. He walked right in the cabin door.
Blood stains everywhere. Abandoned blankets kicked aside. Holstering his pistol, he looked around. A holey sock. No gold eagles in it. A rusted straight razor. The diamond brooch. He pocketed that. The Rikes had stashed the greenbacks in their boots, damn them. The posse had retrieved the strong box Mose broke open. Not a splinter left behind. A dozen spent cartridges. Old man Rike’s dented tin flask.
Burl drained the flask into his mouth and held the whiskey over his rotting molar. He prowled the corner where Jodee had slept. Goddammit! It was gone.
• • •
Jodee woke to heavy snow-spitting grey clouds overhead. She was jolting on her back with the sound of horses’ hooves clomping along the trail. She lay on a travois woven from pine branches hitched to a horse. They were on a rocky road lined with dense pines towering on both sides. And it was as cold as Christmas.
She twisted around and saw the broad-shouldered back of the lawman riding a big horse. At first she felt relieved, but then she sank back, shivering with dread. She wanted to climb to her feet and run, but a stabbing pain in her shoulder made her whimper. Her body felt like deadweight.
They’d taken her somewhere. A settlement? There’d been some kind of wheezing doctor. Yesterday? A week ago? She couldn't remember. Her eyes drifted closed.
The travois scraped to a stop. Gritting her teeth against the pain, Jodee listened to the creaking of saddle leather as the lawman dismounted. When he loomed over her, he seemed as tall as the sky. Jodee’s hunger-hollow belly knotted. Why’d he scowl at her like she was ugly or something? Was he feeling even the slightest scrap of pity for her? She didn’t sense friendship in that granite gaze. The stubble on his jaw looked darker, more frightening. She shrank back, unsure of him. Some lawmen were just as bad as outlaws.
Crouching, he tugged off his big buckskin glove and laid warm fingers against her chilled cheek. Something comforting spread through her body, something like warm honey. Oh, that felt nice, to be touched with kindness. She held her breath. He put his hand on her forehead. His dark brows drew together. Faint wrinkles formed at the corners of his eyes. A body could forget a lot, looking at a face like that.
“We’re almost there,” he said softly.
Her throat tightened. She swallowed hard.
“We have a real doc in Burdeen, not a bone-cracker like that one in Kirkstone.” He tucked the blanket around her. Her shoulder responded with a thunderbolt of pain that made her flinch and gasp. “Won’t you tell me who you are, miss?”
Miss? She thought of Burl’s warning after the holdup. You better come with us, Jodee-girl. If a posse catches us, we'll go to jail, sure. You, too.
They didn’t put innocent girls in jail, did they?
She heard one of the posse men call out as if he were in pain, “Patsy. Patsy!”
With a jerk of his head, the lawman straightened. He hurried along the mounted men to one slumped in his saddle. This was her chance to escape, Jodee thought. But she felt so weak, she could scarcely hold her eyes open.
After a moment the lawman stormed back to his horse and threw himself onto the saddle. They headed on at a faster pace. With each jolt of the travois, Jodee’s shoulder blazed afresh. The lawman glanced back once to scowl at her. Did he care that he was hurting her? No, he looked like he hated her. Jodee clenched her teeth, hating him back.
Soon the rocky trail widened. She saw storefronts and rough-looking saloons lining a steep rutted street. The snow came down heavily. She hadn’t been to a town in years. Her father always steered clear of civilization. It felt strange to see folks walking along and wagon traffic going by and hammers echoing against the pine-clad mountainsides. Side streets sported newly built houses, real houses, not cabins or shacks. She couldn’t tell if she felt excited or afraid.
Schoolboys playing in stacked lumber paused as the posse plodded by. They started running alongside Jodee’s travois, reminding her of dirty-kneed schoolboys who once taunted her. Yer pa’s an outlaw. Ya got bad blood. She wished they’d leave her alone. She looked from side to side, past signboards that read Ellis Brothers, Boots, Shoes and Leather Findings; Stanley Holt, Seller of Whiskey and Cigars; and Munjoy’s Fine Furniture and Coffins—she had trouble reading them—the procession passed an Ashton-Babcock stage depot. A black crepe mourning wreath hung on the door. That was Burl’s doing, she thought, looking away. The Rikes and Burl had held up an Ashton-Babcock stagecoach. The driver got himself killed, Burl said, his weasel eyes snapping like killing a man was nothing.
And her father.
Jodee couldn’t breathe. Her father was dead. His body had been left behind on the stage road. He’d been taken away and buried by strangers. She didn’t know where. She’d go crazy if she didn’t find out. All she could remember from her last morning with him was how he looked, riding away, holding his hat high in the air. “This is the big one, Jodee-honey. Last time.”
Jodee stifled a moan. Last time meant last robbery, not dead.
The lawman halted the procession. Townsfolk flocked down the street to stare at her before moving on to greet the posse men. He dismounted in front of a stone-built jailhouse with a shake roof and plank porch. There was a pine addition built onto one side, making it the ugliest jailhouse Jodee had ever seen.
She watched a skinny lad vault out of the jailhouse door and lope around to halt and stare down at her.
“You got ’em all, Marshal? Every last one of ’em?”
Rubbing his eyes, the lawman gave a sigh. “I got errands for you, Hobie.”
“Yes’r. Who’s this here?”
“Wish I knew,” the lawman said. “Owen thinks she might be wife to one of the Rikes. I thought she might be a sister.”
What a horrible idea, Jodee thought, wanting to protest, but the lawman—the marshal—scowled down at her so darkly she shrank from him. She feared she might throw up.
Snowflakes swirled around his head. “I wanted to bring them in without a fight.” He glared at the posse men dismounting along the street. It looked like his face hurt. “I had to shoot or risk more men. Tangus wasn’t there. Or he got away. I don’t know which. I couldn’t take time to look for him. I had to get Virgil and this one to that quack in Kirkstone.” He shook his head, dark eyes blazing. “Waste of precious time.”
The lad’s eyes followed the line of tra
il-weary horses to the end where the outlaws hung face-down across saddles. He looked stricken. “Virgil’s shot?”
The marshal took his hat off, brushed snow from the crown, and clapped it back on his head hard. “I’ll be in the stage office, wiring Cheyenne City. Get Roy Trappe over here for pictures. Tell Isaac I need four pine boxes.”
Before the marshal could give another order, a female’s screaming wail brought his head around. A red-haired woman in calico came running from the mercantile. She was about as pregnant as a woman could get and still move. She threw herself at the wounded deputy where he stood propped up by his fellow posse men. Sobbing, she covered his face with hysterical kisses.
The marshal looked away, his mouth a bitter gash. Finally, he glared down at Jodee where she lay on the travois. “I must know who you are, miss.”
Was he making fun of her? Nobody called her miss.
He gave the lad an exasperated look. “She won’t tell me her name.”
When had he asked her name? She couldn’t remember him asking. She didn’t dare answer. She didn’t trust her voice. She didn’t want him to know how scared she was.
The lad hunkered down to look at Jodee eye to eye. His eyes danced. Blue as mountain lake water. “I ain’t never seen a girl outlaw before. Was you maybe a captive of them thievin’ men?”
With all her strength, Jodee held back tears. She wasn’t going to cry in front of this boy, or the marshal or the gawking people standing around. She shook her head and whispered, “He was my pa.”
“Who, Cloyd Rike?” the marshal demanded.
That old buzzard, she thought in disgust. “T. T. McQue,” she said, sounding a bit stronger than she felt. “He was my pa.”
She watched a strange stiffness settle over the marshal’s face.
The lad rocked back on his heels. “Well, howdy-do, Miss McQue. How old are you?”
Her Outlaw Heart Page 1