A Bounty Hunter and the Bride

by Vickie McDonough

  ISBN 978-1-59789-388-6

  THE BOUNTY HUNTER AND THE BRIDE

  Copyright © 2007 by Vickie McDonough. All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the permission of Truly Yours, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., PO Box 721, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683.

  All scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  All of the characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental.

  Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.

  PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.

  one

  Spring 1903, Sanders Creek, Oklahoma

  “You oughta be right proud of yourself.”

  City Marshal Dusty McIntyre’s chest swelled at Deputy Tom Barker’s comment. Then he heaved a sigh of relief, knowing the crafty swindler he’d been after for months was finally behind bars. He eyed the solemn prisoner in the cell. “I have to admit, there were days I wondered if we’d ever catch this weasel. Feels good to have him locked up.”

  Ed Sloane’s eyes narrowed as he glared through the bars. “Just ‘cause you got me locked up today, Marshal, don’t mean you will tomorrow.” One cheek kicked upward in a cocky sneer.

  Dusty wanted to smack that belligerent look off Sloane’s face, but he wouldn’t. As a law officer, he was bound by a different code than the man in his jail, and as a Christian, he was called by God to walk a straight path and control his temper. He recognized Ed Sloane for what he was—a lost man. A man on the road to hell if he didn’t change his ways real fast.

  Sloane stuck his hands between two bars. “Think you could take these cuffs off now that you got me safe in your jail?”

  Dusty didn’t miss the sarcasm that laced his prisoner’s voice. The man still didn’t seem to realize he’d been caught. Much as he’d like to leave Sloane handcuffed, he crossed the room, his boots echoing on the wood floor. He pulled a warm metal key from his shirt pocket, but then stopped and glanced at Tom. “If he tries anything, shoot him.”

  Tom pressed his lips together and nodded as he pulled his pistol from his holster and pointed it in Sloane’s direction. “Be happy to.”

  Dusty approached the cell with caution. Ed Sloane was slipperier than a greased hog at the county fair. A chill slipped up Dusty’s spine when an evil glint flashed in the man’s light blue eyes. What could bring a man to be so depraved that he would prey on the elderly and widows, stealing them blind and leaving them penniless and heartbroken?

  With a few rattles and clicks, the handcuffs were off, and Dusty moved back. Sloane gave a guttural laugh that sounded like a snarling, wounded animal. Shaking his head, Dusty crossed the room to his desk and tossed down the key. Tom picked it up, stuck it in the desk drawer, and then holstered his weapon.

  “Don’t you reckon you oughta head home to supper and tell that fine wife of yours all about your exceptional day?” Tom grinned, and his thick mustache twitched. “If she’s fixin’ that rhubarb pie of hers, you might save me a slice—if you’ve a mind to. Mmm-mm, it’s mighty fine.”

  “I may do just that.” Dusty smiled at his deputy. Tom had been his best friend since school days, and it seemed natural to hire him as his deputy when Dusty’s father retired as city marshal of Sanders Creek, in the Oklahoma territory, and Dusty took over. Most of the time he worked days and Tom evenings, but lately they’d both been pulling almost twenty-four-hour shifts as their search for Sloane narrowed. They’d gone from house to house, ranch to ranch, searching for Sloane and his gang. His trail resembled that of a cyclone, leaving in its wake a path of desperation and destruction. Now that Dusty had captured Sloane, it shouldn’t be too hard to get the rest of his gang.

  Dusty’s belly grumbled, and he yawned. All he wanted was to eat one of Emily’s fine meals, then hit the hay and sleep a full day and night.

  Except for Sloane and the havoc he and his gang had caused lately, this past year had been the best Dusty could remember. First, he’d given his heart to God. Then five months ago, he’d fallen in love and married the new banker’s daughter.

  He longed to run his fingers through Emily’s thick, auburn hair. Soft as a horse’s muzzle, but as sweet smelling as the rosebushes in front of their porch. He imagined her pine green eyes twinkling with merriment as she played one of her little pranks on him. An only child, Dusty couldn’t wait until they had a house full of children. Emily would be a wonderful mother, and he could only hope he’d be a decent father. God would help him in that area.

  Ah yes, life was good.

  A cowboy on a bay horse rode past at a quick trot, slinging dust on him and yanking him from his thoughts. Frantic shouts at the end of the street chased away his warm feelings, and a snake of apprehension slithered down his spine. Looking around, he noticed men running and women with skirts lifted high hurrying around the corner up ahead. He picked up his pace and jogged to the end of Main Street, then turned onto Haskell Avenue. Two blocks down, he saw the source of everyone’s anxiety. His heart thudded to a stop just as his feet did.

  One of his neighbors’ houses was engulfed in flames, but the billowing smoke was so thick that he couldn’t determine which one it was. He narrowed his eyes and studied the scene. Men ran everywhere, using anything from hats to mixing bowls to dip in the nearby horse troughs and get water to throw onto the fire.

  Dusty charged forward, fearing for his friends. Was it old man Harper and his sickly wife’s home? Or maybe the two-story clapboard building that housed a pair of widowed sisters who had recently been victims of Ed Sloane? They sure didn’t need any more trouble.

  Dusty’s legs propelled him closer. As the roof collapsed on the only blue house in the area, he felt as if he’d been speared by an Indian’s lance. Realization dawned like a heavy, dark curtain being lifted on a stage of performers. Only this was no theatrical show. This was his life. His home.

  Dusty raced forward, screaming for his wife. “E–Emily! Emily!”

  Heads turned his way, and shoulders drooped. Dusty didn’t want to read the expressions in those faces covered with black soot. Strong arms pulled him back just as he reached his porch. His face stung from the heat of the flames, and he fought his captors but wasn’t strong enough to outmaneuver four big men.

  He turned away from the scene, feeling the heat bleed through his shirt onto his back. Across the street from the flaming remains of his house, a group of women stood, each one holding her hand or a handkerchief over her nose.

  Sympathetic eyes stared back.

  No! This couldn’t be happening. Everything he owned was in that house. Dusty backed out of his friends’ hold and ran to Harmon Styles, a neighbor who lived around the corner. “Have you seen Emily? I need to make sure she’s okay.”

  Harmon’s concerned gaze darted toward the man standing next to him. Pastor Phillips reached out his hand to Dusty’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, son. We tried hard to save her.”

  A fog enveloped Dusty’s head, making it hard to see and comprehend. “What? Just tell me where she is.” He looked right, then left. Nowhere did he see his beloved’s face.

  “E–Emily!” Choking on the swirling smoke, he dropped to his knees. Where was she? His tired mind struggled to remember if this was the day she’d gone to her sewing circle. No, that was Tuesday. This was Wednesday.

  God, no. Please find my wife. Let her be safe. I need her.

  Pastor Phillips stooped down beside h
im, offering a cup of water. Dusty shook his head. He didn’t want water. He had to locate Emily. As he started to rise, he caught the minister’s pained expression. “I’m so sorry, son, but she’s gone. Thelma Sue—she saw Emily in the side windows hurrying toward the front door just before the roof collapsed. We tried to save her. We truly did. It just happened too fast.”

  Dusty ducked his head, unable to grasp the pastor’s words. His legs trembled like never before, forcing him to press his hands against the ground to keep from collapsing. God, don’t do this to me. Emily is my life.

  The top of his head touched the ground as tears blurred his vision and grief pierced his heart. Friends gathered near, patting his shoulder and offering whispers of sympathy.

  Dusty lifted his head, peering through several pairs of legs to see the burning mass that had been his home. The flaming remains of the roof rested at an odd angle, like a sinking ship. As he watched, the bricks of the chimney he’d repaired only a month ago crashed down, sending more smoke and fiery embers into the air.

  Anger surged through his being as he realized all his dreams had just gone up in smoke. He growled and shoved upward like a wounded bear, sending his friends scattering from the force.

  His eyes burned as his hopes and dreams were reduced to ashes. He had to get away from this crowd.

  Pressing his hat down low on his forehead, he turned away from the scene. Why hadn’t Emily answered his call? No! She couldn’t be gone. His mind couldn’t comprehend the emptiness of life without her. Just this morning, she’d kissed him good-bye and promised to have her delicious fried chicken waiting for him.

  He pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead, trying to make sense of it all. Oh, Emily.

  Somewhere behind him, he heard running footsteps and someone screaming. “No! Please. Emily Sue!”

  He recognized his mother-in-law’s frantic pleading but had no power to comfort her. The woman’s screams tore at his battered heart. How could God let this happen? “Marshal! Where’s the marshal?”

  A voice from far away pulled him out of the darkness sucking him under. Hank Slaughter, owner of the mercantile across from the jail, plowed through the crowd of gawkers and hurried toward him. “There’s been a jailbreak, Marshal. Tom’s been shot.”

  Shoving down his hat, Dusty moved forward as if living a nightmare. His mind refused to believe Emily had perished. She was simply at a friend’s house. He had no trouble slipping into work mode. It was just what he needed to drive the frightful thoughts from his mind.

  His boots pounded out a cadence on the boardwalk as he jogged toward his office. Emily is gone. Emily is gone. Even the wood under his feet screamed the words.

  No! He wouldn’t believe it. He couldn’t. Any minute now he would wake up and find out this was just a nightmare.

  He hurried inside the jailhouse, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting. The faint odor of gunpowder clung to the air, and the empty jail cell with the door swung open mocked him. Doc Michaels knelt on the floor beside Tom, examining his bloody shoulder wound. He looked up as Dusty skidded to a halt. “He’ll live.”

  Relief coursed through him like a flash flood. Squatting, he stared into Tom’s pain-filled eyes. “What happened?”

  “Three men.” Tom’s eyes closed, his mouth contorted as he fought for control. “Got the best of me. Sloane escaped.” He heaved a deep breath. “Headed north.”

  Dusty turned around to start recruiting a posse but then decided he needed to do this alone. Reaching down, he squeezed Tom’s good shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, pardner. I’ll get him back. You just get better.”

  He started to turn, but Tom grabbed his pant leg. “Wait—”

  The glazed look of despair in his friend’s eyes nailed him in place.

  “Your house. It’s okay?”

  Dusty crinkled his brow. Tom had no way of knowing what had happened. He stooped to get closer, pushing back an ominous premonition. “Why?”

  “As Sloane left, he looked back—said he’d left a present at your house.”

  Dusty stood and backed up until he hit the wall. A muscle in his jaw twitched.

  Sloane couldn’t be responsible for the fire, could he? Had the fire simply been a diversion to allow Sloane’s escape?

  “Glad things are all right….” Tom lost consciousness as Doc Michaels wrapped his shoulder.

  “You men, carry the deputy over to my office,” the doctor said.

  As several men shuffled around him, Dusty mentally listed what supplies he needed. Two rifles and ammunition. Some food. His canteen and horse. He unlocked the rifle case, grabbed two Winchesters, and then locked it back up again. On his way out the door, he yanked his brown duster off a hook and studied the crowd. He couldn’t stand seeing the sympathetic looks from the townsfolk. His gaze landed on Steve Foster, a local businessman who had once been a deputy. “You’ll watch over things till I get back or Tom’s on his feet again?”

  Steve pressed his lips together and nodded.

  Dusty strode back into his office, yanked open the middle drawer of his desk, and grabbed a deputy’s badge. He flipped it to Steve as he tramped outside. As he moved off the boardwalk, the crowd in the street parted like the Red Sea. Dusty turned toward the livery, pulling his hat down low on his forehead so he wouldn’t have to meet anyone’s gaze.

  Tears blurred his vision. Emily was gone… and Sloane was to blame. For now, he’d focus on capturing Sloane and seeing him hanged or in prison for life. Later he’d think of his beautiful wife and all that he’d lost.

  Dusty followed Sloane’s trail until dark. He dismounted and tried to grab a few hours’ sleep, but every time he closed his eyes, he saw flames and imagined Emily screaming for him. If only he hadn’t dawdled at the jail, gloating over Sloane’s capture. Maybe he could have stopped the fire before it had gotten out of control. Maybe he could have gotten Emily out of the house before it was too late.

  By sunup, he’d eaten a dried-out biscuit and an apple and was on the trail again. Thankfully, last night about dusk, he’d happened upon the unusual, square-shaped hoofprints he recognized as belonging to Sloane’s horse. After weeks of trailing Sloane before, Dusty would never forget that unique track.

  As the sun reached its zenith, Dusty stared out over a valley that led into Kansas. He had no jurisdiction there. Truth be told, he hadn’t had any legal authority to chase Sloane since he left Garfield County. His horse snorted, impatient to move on.

  A red-tailed hawk glided across the sky, then dove toward the ground and soared upward again with a squirming rabbit in its grip. Dusty felt like that hare.

  His life was over. His home gone. His wife dead. And his God had abandoned him.

  Dusty glanced down, and a ray of sunlight flashed off his marshal’s badge. Yanking off the metal star, he rubbed his thumb over its smooth surface. He’d dedicated his life to protecting the townsfolk of Sanders Creek in the Oklahoma Territory, but he’d failed to protect the person he loved most. Clenching his jaw, he flipped the badge in the air and watched the sun reflect off it as the silver star spiraled to the ground.

  With his heels, he nudged his horse forward. If it was the last thing he did, he’d find Ed Sloane and see justice done.

  two

  Fall 1904, a farm near Claremont, in the Oklahoma Territory

  Katie Hoffman jumped at the fervent pounding on her bedroom door. “Yes?”

  “Uhh… Miz Hoffman, the judge is here, and that feller you’re fixin’ to marry is gettin’ fidgety.”

  Katie smiled at her shy ranch hand’s muffled comment, knowing he must be embarrassed to his boot tips to be talking through her bedroom door. “Thank you, Carter. Tell them I’m almost ready and will be out in a moment.” She could imagine Allan King, her fiancé, pacing the parlor, checking his pocket watch over and over, and driving everyone loco. He’d been after her to marry him for two months now, and he wasn’t one to be patient.

  She turned and studied her reflectio
n in the tall mirror. “Katie King. Mrs. Allan King. Has a pretty nice ring to it, if I do say so myself.” She fastened the final button of the blue-gray cotton dress, which draped over her protruding stomach and fell in soft waves to the ground. The ecru Irish-lace collar looked pretty against her tanned neckline. Her spirits soared to be wearing something colorful again instead of widow’s black.

  She touched her cheek. Did Allan mind that her skin wasn’t fair, as was popular with the women in town? Jarrod had said he loved her coloring, but then, even her tanned skin had looked pale against her first husband’s bronze complexion. Growing up a tomboy, she’d been outside so often that her skin was always a golden brown and her hair a light blond. After she married, she’d tried harder to stay inside or always wear a bonnet, but since Jarrod’s death, the farm demanded so much more of her that she now spent much of her day outside. With the brisk winds that often swept across the Oklahoma plains, she found it easier to work without a hat, which frequently blew off anyway; thus her hair had again lightened and her skin darkened.

  Katie pushed in another hairpin to secure her thick bun, then eased down onto the chair beside the window to put on her shoes. As her palm came to rest on her large belly, the child within heaved a mighty kick, making her hand bounce. Not for the first time, she wondered if Jarrod had given her a son or daughter.

  Leaning her head against the tall back of the rocker, she studied the bedroom that she had shared with Jarrod. White eyelet curtains fluttered as a cool breeze tickled their hem. The Wedding Ring quilt she’d labored over most of one winter was pieced together from blue and white scraps of fabric and now covered the bed she would soon share with her new husband. It had been Jarrod’s suggestion to paint the room a pale blue, and she had to admit she liked it. But would Allan? He seemed a tad particular about things.

  Tears stung her eyes, but she batted them away. This wasn’t the time for crying. Those days were past. She was getting married for the second time in less than a year and should consider herself fortunate to have found a man willing to wed a woman in her condition.