Lassoing a Bride

by Gail L Jenner et al.

  “You are that, my little one. You have become a fierce warrior.” The smile that curved her lips was the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen.

  “Did I hurt him, do you think?”

  “You sound pleased by that prospect.”

  “I am. He thought he could destroy me, but he didn’t. Now, I’m free of him forever.”

  Dreams of their future filled his mind. “Do you believe that I love you?”

  “Oh, yes.” She held his gaze with hers. “And I adore you.”

  When she wrapped her arms around his waist, he pulled her close, just breathing in the beautiful perfume that was hers alone.

  “I suppose we have to go back.”

  He nearly echoed her sigh with his own. “I am sure Matthew has more to tell us.” Rising, he pulled her to her feet.

  “What else could he have to say?”

  ****

  As it turned out, a great deal was still to be said. Rebekah sat on Franz’s lap in one of the parlor chairs, trying to absorb what Matthew was saying.

  “But Reginald said my father owed him a great deal of money.”

  Matthew nodded. “And he offered you as payment. Apparently Redmann had seen you with your father and decided he wanted you. When he got you alone, he concocted the story that he’d been promised your sister, counting on your willingness to do anything to protect her. He needed you to go along without protest or he risked getting caught by those that he owed.”

  Rebekah threaded her fingers through Franz’s. “That’s why he hurried to marry me—or pretended to. I’m not really married to him, am I?”

  “No, ma’am. Timms tracked down the captain who’d helped Redmann with the sham wedding. He’d recently retired from the sea and purchased the very pub where he’d been hired. They shared a couple of laughs over memory of the poor naïve miss who’d been tricked. After informing the captain he could be arrested for kidnapping and a half dozen other crimes, Timms allowed the man to sign a confession in exchange for his freedom.”

  Jericho laughed out loud. “Hoodwinked the old bastard, did he? Timms is smarter than I remember.”

  “Did my father truly have me declared dead?”

  Matt’s gaze was gentle and sympathetic. “Unfortunately, yes. You could, of course, go home and prove him wrong.”

  Her disheveled hair flew as she shook her head. “No! I want nothing to do with my father or the life I had in Boston. Except for my sister. Do you know where Betsy is?”

  “According to Archer Timms, the Pinkerton agent who’s been looking into this for me, your sister started searching for you the morning after you were taken. Unfortunately, the man she was looking for was Avery Thomas, not Reginald Redmann. When your father found out what she was doing, he put a stop to it.”

  “But where is she?”

  “Timms believes she was sent to a convent in Pennsylvania.”

  Rebekah stared at him in disbelief. “My sister is a nun?”

  “We’ll have to wait for Timms to confirm that.”

  “She must be miserable.” Rebekah remembered a precocious girl of twelve who was forever playing tricks and getting into trouble. To be confined to a life of order and obedience would be terrible for her. “I hope he finds her soon.”

  She withdrew into herself while they continued to discuss the myriad charges that could be leveled against Redmann.

  “Wait.” The room grew quiet as all eyes turned to her. “What’s my name?”

  Brushing a finger down her jaw, Franz gently turned her face to his. “Liebling, you are not thinking clearly.”

  She grabbed his hand and clutched it tightly. “That’s not what I mean. My father declared me dead. I’m not married. What is my name?” Suddenly this was very important. “How can I have a future if I don’t have a last name?”

  Franz lifted her from his lap and rose to stand with her. “Who you were no longer matters. As for who you are…” He dropped to one knee in front of her. “I hope you will allow me to make it Bittner.”

  From a distance, she heard Martha’s soft cry of joy and the chuckles of Matthew and Jericho, but she had eyes only for Franz. “Are you certain you want me?”

  “With all my heart.”

  Tears filled her eyes while joy overflowed in her heart. “I love you, Franz Albert Bittner. I would be honored to take your name as my own.” As the room erupted in cheers and applause, Franz stood and took her in his arms.

  “It will be forever, my darling one,” he whispered.

  “And not a day less,” she agreed.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR—TRACY GARRETT

  Award-winning multi-published author Tracy Garrett has always loved to disappear into the pages of a book. An accomplished musician, Tracy merged her need for creativity, love of history, and passion for reading when she began writing western historical romance. First published in 2007, Tracy joined the Prairie Rose Publications in its inaugural anthology in 2013. She is a regular blogger on Petticoats and Pistols. Tracy resides in Missouri with her husband and their fuzzy kid, Wrigley. Find out more about Tracy and her books at www.TracyGarrett.com.

  THE BANK ROBBER'S LAMENT

  Sara Barnard

  Smith had no trouble finding equal amounts of both anonymity and trouble in Gabriel's Settlement. But when he sets eyes on beautiful Johanna and her sweet daughter, Sadie, both helpless at the hands of a heartless abuser, might some other emotion be fated to bloom in that desert town of far west Texas?

  Jonesy pushed his hat up with the shooting end of his Colt. After daring a peek from behind the big oak, he ducked to join the rest of them. "You go in first, Smith. You’re the ugliest one of us, anyway!"

  The two other gang members chuckled, their pistols drawn and hanging easily in their slender hands. Smith had only pulled one other job with these guys and hadn't bothered to learn anyone's name but Jonesy's. Smith figured that, like him, they were probably all using fake names anyway, so it didn't make much sense to pay them any special attention.

  "Did you hear me, Smith, or are you deaf and ugly?" Jonesy's face twisted up into a sneer. "Get in that bank and get 'em to sack up that money, just like last time. Then, we'll come in to collect it."

  Smith let his fingers trace the wide scar that had been a gift from his father. The angry gash snaked from the corner of his droopy eye, beneath his nose, and ended at the opposite corner of his mouth. He coughed. "Alright, Boss, just like last time." Their snickers echoed in his ears as Smith pulled his black felt cowboy hat down low, concealing most of his disfigured face.

  The dusty main street of Gabriel's Settlement in this forgotten corner of Texas was empty, aside from a lone wagon just coming into town. Being Wednesday, most of the townsfolk were probably headed to evening services at the church house. He glanced at the giant clock on the bank's façade. 4:45. Just about closing time.

  The wagon, driven by a large man in bib overalls and a straw hat, groaned to a halt right in front of the bank. A blonde-haired woman, who couldn't have been much younger than Smith, sat tall and stoic on the rickety seat beside him.

  "Durn the luck," Smith muttered. He glanced at the sun, trying to look inconspicuous.

  The large man's grating voice echoed in the street as he struggled with the wagon's brake. Finally, he was successful, and heaved his burly frame from the wagon box onto the wooden boardwalk in front of the bank. "Come on, Johanna. Let's get this over with." He turned his broad back, leaving the woman to struggle out of the wagon without help.

  ****

  Smith's brows knotted together. That don't look right.

  Casting a glance over his shoulder, Jonesy's face poked out from behind the oak. Go on, he mouthed, waving the pistol in the direction of the bank.

  Drawing in a haggard breath, Smith shoved his hands deep into his duster's empty pockets and started toward the bank. His fingers wiggled, a nervous habit he'd had since as far back as he could remember. If he still had his six-shooter, he'd have been able to feel it with the incessant wiggl
ing.

  At the first job, when he'd realized he'd forgotten his pistol after commanding the bank teller to empty the vault, Smith had made a strange discovery. When he'd tipped up his hat, the mousy gentleman behind the counter had simply gasped and filled the burlap, a look of horror on his thinly-mustached face. "Y-y-yes. Yessir," he'd managed, as he'd filled the bags. Smith shook his head at the memory and stepped onto the tumbledown boardwalk.

  "Can you help me, mister?" The tiny voice of a girl chimed from the back of the wagon. "Please?"

  Smith looked over his shoulder. Sure enough, there was a little girl seated in the back of the wagon. She wore a blue dress, obviously store-bought, and her pretty blonde hair was tied back in pigtails. One eye was shadowed and a lone trickle of blood ran from her puffy lip down to her trembling chin. "Please, mister."

  "You talkin' to strangers, Sadie?" The big man's grating voice came from behind them. "That's three lashes with the belt when we get back to the homestead."

  Then, there it was. That remembrance that showed up at the most inopportune times. The knife in his father's hand flashed in his memory, just as it had in real life so many years ago. Remembering the pain, anger, and humiliation made something hot surge from the depths of Smith's gut. His father had always told him that he deserved what he got. Maybe that was true, maybe it wasn't. One thing was for certain, though; this little girl in the wagon—little Sadie—had done nothing wrong.

  Smith slowly turned his body so that he was facing the man who'd just exited the bank. The woman, Johanna, hovered behind him, a greenish hue on her cheek and the same pleading look in her eyes as the girl’s.

  Feeling the big farmer's eyes on him, Smith raised one finger, slow as molasses in the wintertime, and eased his hat up…up…up. He watched as the big man's eyes grew wider when he took in his scarred appearance.

  "By Jove man, you're ... you're ... you're hideous!"

  Smith stared at him for a moment and then spoke. "That gal done nothin' wrong. Was me that spoke first." He took a step closer to the big man. Dropping his voice low, Smith continued. "It's me that deserves those three lashes, not the child. Understood?"

  The big man nodded. Averting his eyes, he waddled to the wagon and clambered in. "Well, come on, Johanna," he stammered. "We ain't got all day!"

  Smith stared as the woman swept by to resume her stoic seat in the wagon. Her dress, also store-bought, matched her shoes. She was, by far, the most handsome women he'd ever set eyes on.

  Smith watched dumbly as the big man snapped the reins and never looked back as he drove the wagon out of town. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked, hurrying the buggy horses on at a quicker pace.

  Wish I could have me a family like that. Smith turned back toward the bank's door. How'd that big lug get so lucky?

  Glancing at the clock, Smith pulled his hat down low. 5:00 o’clock. The street was empty, people were gone, and it was closing time. His boots thunked on the wood planks as he approached the door. "Time to get this over with," he mumbled, placing his hand on the handle. Raising his free hand slowly, Smith checked the position of his hat once more. Satisfied that his face was well-concealed, he sucked in deep breath and pushed open the door.

  ****

  "Hello, sir, how can I—" The bank president's voice squelched when he looked from the bills he'd been counting up to Smith. The grubby papers fluttered to the counter as his jaw went slack. "I-I-I ..."

  Smith nodded toward the black safe that stood in the corner of the dusty room. "Empty it," Smith commanded, his already-baritone voice even lower. "Now."

  Beads of sweat cropped up on the bank president's forehead as he stared at Smith, the uneasy silence punctuated with his quickening gasps. "Mister, all of the money in the safe—" He pulled at his string necktie with one trembling finger.

  "Empty it and put it in one of them burlap sacks, mister." The boys ought to be runnin' in here to collect that sack any minute, just like last time...

  ****

  The president, snapping out of whatever trance that had befallen him, began clawing at the bills on the countertop. "It all left on the stage yesterday. This here's all I got in the whole bank!" His voice was growing higher with each word. "Please, don't harm me. I've got a family."

  Smith watched as a fat drop of sweat shinnied down his nose. "It'll do. Just sack it up."

  Moving quicker than Smith had thought possible, the bank president stuffed the handful of money into a sack. Leaning, he held it out, his arms quaking so that even his wire-rimmed spectacles seemed ready to jump right off his face.

  Smith accepted the bag. "Much obliged." Turning on his heels, he exited the bank at a trot. They didn't come!

  Glancing down the still-empty street, he hurried to where he'd left the boys. "You boys left me hanging!" Smith announced as he approached the tree.

  "Well, well, well. Just in time."

  Smith slowed to a halt, the burlap bag still clutched in his white-knuckled grasp. There, at the base of the tree sat the boys—all three of them doe-eyed and silent.

  The sheriff spoke again, tapping his pistol against his bulging belly. "Mr. Smith. These boys here said they wasn't to blame, it was all your idea to rob that bank. And you just proved 'em right." He grinned. "Let's step on over to the jailhouse now, nice and easy."

  Smith's palm went clammy on the scratchy burlap.

  The fat sheriff looked down at the boys. "You men are free to go, but I better not ever see you 'round these parts again, savvy?"

  Without a word, the three of them slunk off toward the open Texas desert without a backward glance.

  The weight of the world was suddenly very heavy as Smith extended the bag of money to the sheriff. "Guess we'd better get goin'."

  ****

  The sheriff's chuckling laughter stung as they made their way back across the street. This time, though, not toward the bank; this time, they walked toward the ramshackle building two doors down. The one with the iron bars on the window and thick wooden door. "Yup, Mr. Smith, you're going to jail."

  The metallic thunk of the lock being slid into place sent a ripple through Smith's heart. The sheriff's nasal voice cut through his mental lament. "Ain't no one gonna know I caught you, son."

  Smith let his gaze fix on the piece of alfalfa straw the fat sheriff chewed between his brown teeth.

  "You know why they ain't gonna know?" He spit out the piece of grass out the door and glanced at the setting sun before continuing. "'Cause it seems some feller's horses come up stolen just this afternoon...well, they will come up stolen shortly. And guess who I'm gonna throw in jail for stealin' those nags?"

  This is it. The view I'm gonna have to get used to from here on out. Smith turned and gripped the iron bars. He tried to not look at the pastel-hued miracle that came each night with the slow sinking of the west Texas sun. "So, you'll keep the money, then?"

  The sheriff spit out the door again. "You're durned right. Seems I didn't catch those bank robbers, but by golly, I got the horse thief." Shifting one worn-out boot, the sheriff moved a loose board and dropped the burlap sack into the black. "See there? Ain't no money anywhere round here."

  "What I done ain't right...but what you’re doin'—" Smith paused and shook his head, still watching the slow sunset. "You ain't no better'n me."

  The sheriff shuffled toward the door. Behind him, he pulled it with a slow creak, pausing only when it was open just a smidge. "District Court judge'll be here this week. You'll be danglin' from a rope quicker'n you can slap a tick. Then, you tell me who's better'n who." Slam.

  Whom, Smith thought back, hard. A rogue smile crept onto his chapped lips as the voice of his schoolmarm mother echoed in his head. "You were gone too soon, Ma," he whispered into the empty jail. You sure wouldn't be proud of the way your only son turned out.

  The night winds gave way to chilled morning breezes as they whispered through the oaks that lined the dry creek bed just south of the jail. "I wonder what lil' Sadie and her ma are up to tonight." The
words escaped so quickly that he jerked and looked over his shoulder. A shiver crept down his spine. Where'd that come from?

  Silvery beams of moonlight laid long across the dusty floor as Smith, too tired to sleep, stared out the smallish barred window. That stupid feller don't know how lucky he is to have such a fine woman and beautiful baby girl to share his life with. Somethin’ I'll never have...

  Jingling keys and muted whispers called his attention from the moon to the jailhouse door.

  “Smith! Hey, Smith!” Jonesy’s whiskey-rough voice was noticeably out of place in the relative peace offered by the cool Texas night. “We come to bust you out.”

  Adjusting his weight on the makeshift cot, Smith stared into the dank darkness of early morn that cloaked the far side of the jail. “Careful boys, that old codger could be back any time–”

  Muffled whispers were interrupted by a resounding metallic clink as the door to the jail creaked open. “We done took care of him. Now…” Jonesy continued, still fumbling with the sheriff’s ring of keys, “which one gets you out of there?”

  ****

  Smith watched in silence as the fellows who left him to fend for himself now risked it all to free him from the long arm of the law. Emotion tingled in the back of his throat. “After earlier, I figured y’all would make a clean break and leave me to dangle at my own necktie party.” Gripping the sides of the cot in white-knuckled anticipation, Smith gulped as the lock slid from its place. “What happened to the sheriff?”

  Jonesy grinned from the barred, now-open doorway. “Ain’t got to worry about him none.”

  Obviously drunk, another member of their makeshift outfit lifted his hands to his mouth in a poorly acted attempt to conceal a mock-whisper. “We done conked him on the head and tied him up where no one will ever find him, least not for a while.” His eyes were wide, as if he really was confiding a secret meant to be kept. “The sheriff is in the church.”

  Shifting his uneasy gaze to Jonesy, Smith’s eyes widened as the overall-clad man from earlier that day strode through the creaky jail door. “You didn’t get much cash money, did you, ol’ son.” A sadistic grin revealed to rows of browning stumps. He spit into a dark corner of the jail. “That’s ’cause that sister-in-law of mine forgot the money I tole her to brang…”