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Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
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The Bounty
Copyright © 2006 by Beth Williamson
Cover by Scott Carpenter
ISBN: 1-59998-047-9
www.samhainpublishing.com
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First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: April 2006
This book has been previously published.
The Bounty
By Beth Williamson
Dedication
To my readers and friends on the CowboyLovers group. Y’all are always an inspiration. Thanks for everything.
Prologue
April 1880, Cheshire, Wyoming Territory
It was, without a doubt, the absolute worst day of Nicky Malloy’s life. And every terrifying, miserable minute was her own damn fault. Her nose was clogged, her eyes felt like she had a cup of dirt in them, and her throat was raw. She could barely swallow her own dry spit.
She and her brother Logan were standing behind the main barn on the Hoffman ranch, out of sight of anyone approaching. Twilight was setting in and shadows were beginning to creep in around them.
“My God, Logan. I still can’t believe it.”
He grimaced. “Neither can I.”
“I should never have made you come here with me. Of all the stupid, asinine—”
“Stop it, Nicky. I would have come with you no matter what you said.”
She wiped her clammy palms on her jeans. “What are we going to do when Owen gets here? I know you can hear them coming. They’re somewhere near Buffalo Pass.”
“Yeah, I can hear them. But we aren’t going to do anything about Owen. I am.” He turned his face toward her. “You are going back up that rise, put those two women on Shadow, put the boy on the saddle in front of you, and ride hell-bent for leather toward town and the sheriff.”
She felt as if he’d punched her in the gut. For a moment, she couldn’t even speak.
“You’re crazy,” she shouted. “You think I’m going to leave you here, alone, to face him? After what we just found in his root cellar? Not a chance.”
“No, Sissie,” he said, looking down at his feet for a moment. “I am responsible for you, even if I’m only two minutes older. I will not, will not, allow you to be here when those riders get here. It’s not just a matter of pride, or just being a man.”
When he glanced back up at her, she saw in his eyes that somewhere in the last fifteen minutes her brother had become a man. He looked so much like Papa that tears burned her eyes. Why now?
“I have to do this. Do you understand? It’s who I am.”
She covered her mouth with one hand and held back the sob that threatened to erupt. God help her, he was telling the truth. She had to leave him to face a pack of at least half-a-dozen armed riders that were sure to be furious when they found out what she and Logan had done. He pulled his knife from his boot and held it out to her.
“Take my knife and go.”
She looked down at the leather sheath she had made for him last Christmas. How frivolous life had been then, she realized. She listened to the approaching riders, only minutes away now.
“It’s time, Sissie. You need to go.”
“I can’t,” she said, looking at him with hot tears blurring her vision.
“Yes, you can. You’re strong, hell, stronger than me. You can do this. You will do this. Don’t worry about me. Owen can’t hurt me without Papa coming down on him like a thunderstorm.”
Oh, but she knew better. Owen would hurt him, just as he had hurt her. She knew the devil that hid behind his watery blue eyes.
“I don’t have time to argue with you. Just go.”
He shoved the knife into her boot and pushed her toward the rise that marked the border between their ranch and Owen Hoffman’s.
“Goddammit, Nicole Malloy. Get your ass in gear and get out of here. Run!”
She took one last look at his face and nodded. Then she ran for the rise, certain to come back after she had put the two women and the boy on Shadow, and pointed them toward town. She knew she should take them herself, but they were strangers, and Logan was her brother. She would help them, but she would return to help Logan. And damn the consequences.
Chapter One
May 1883
Tyler Calhoun pretended not to notice that most people sidestepped him when he passed through a town. It was, after all, instinct on their part. He was big, formidable even, over six feet tall, two hundred twenty pounds plus. Two Colt pistols were strapped to his thighs, there was a ten-inch knife on his back, and a Winchester repeating rifle hung from his saddle in a fringed scabbard. He was all in black: black hair, black mustache, black clothes, black saddle, black horse, hell, even black boots. And he had a twisted enough sense of humor to name his black horse Sable. No one else, it seemed, got that joke.
But what put most people off was what they saw when they looked into his eyes. An ordinary blue, but he knew there was emptiness in them. What was left of his soul was as black as his heart. Too many years had passed since Tyler had felt anything. Life had become predictable and nearly distasteful.
If someone had asked him why he’d accepted this particular bounty, he couldn’t have answered. It was a hell of a long ride from Texas to Wyoming, and, in late spring, the weather was fickle. The lure could have been the three thousand dollars; it was finally enough to hang up his bounty hunter hat for a long while, if not for good. It could be the fact that the man he was after hadn’t been caught in over three years, and Tyler loved a challenge. Or it could be neither of those reasons. Something had compelled him to make the long trip.
Owen Hoffman had written to him a month ago about his problem—a problem with Nicky Malloy, an outlaw who had killed Hoffman’s brother and stolen a small fortune of the man’s money. No one had been able to spot Malloy, or even catch the scent of his trail, but now it was Tyler’s turn. He could find a single grain of sand in the desert if it had a price on its head. He had no doubt he’d find Malloy even if the trail was as cold as a whore’s heart.
Reining Sable in as he reached his destination, it was all he could do not to snort in disgust. Cheshire, Wyoming wasn’t even a town. It was eight buildings and a barn huddled together pretending to be a town. It didn’t seem like there would be anybody handing out three dollars, much less three thousand, for a bounty within a hundred miles of this little piece of nowhere.
No help for it, he’d just have to ride into town—he mentally winced at the word—and ask if anybody knew how to find Owen Hoffman. Tyler kneed his horse forward and before he knew it, he was in front of the general store marked Goodson’s. He dismounted, then rubbed his horse’s nose for a moment before he secured the reins to the hitching post.
His boots thunked on the plank sidewalk as he approached the door. A pretty blonde was on the other side, fixing to turn the sign to Closed when she saw him. Her pink lips made the shape of an O as she halted in her task. Smiling, she opened the door for him. A small bell tinkled overhead as the smell of cinnamon and the heady scent of a woman rushed over him.
“Good evening, sir. Can I help yo
u?” she said as she gestured for him to come inside.
Tyler stepped into the store and took a quick survey of the interior. There didn’t seem to be anyone else around. He touched his right index finger to the brim of his hat as he moved into position with a shelf of canned goods behind his back.
“I’m looking for Owen Hoffman. Can you tell me if he lives hereabouts?”
She opened her mouth to answer him, but was cut short by someone else.
“Who in the hell are you? And what are you doing alone with Regina?”
A trio of men stood in the doorway, staring at Tyler. They were good-sized men, all with similar features marking them as kin to each other. Only one was wearing pistols and he was behind the leader, a little younger and a little hotter under the collar by the look of him. They had no idea that he could kill all three of them within the time it took them to take a breath. Like shooting fish in a barrel.
“Raymond,” the blonde rebuked softly. “Where have your manners gone to? This nice gentleman,” the gun-toting young one snickered loudly, “was only looking for information.”
“I’ll bet that’s what he was doing,” said the leader. Tyler assumed he was Raymond. “Did he push his way in here, Reggie?”
“Of course not,” she answered. “The store was still open when he came in.”
Sort of a half-truth, but Tyler didn’t correct her. His eyes were trained on Hothead’s hands and his pistols.
“I’ve asked you repeatedly not to call me that,” she said with a sniff.
“Fine, Regina,” he drawled her name, perhaps to irk her further. “Mister, you didn’t answer my questions. Who in the hell are you and what are you doing alone with my intended?”
Ah, so that was the way of it.
“Name’s Calhoun. As I was telling your intended,” he paused, “I’m looking for Owen Hoffman.”
He thought Raymond had seemed annoyed before, now he appeared absolutely livid. His green eyes practically spit fury. That, of course, did not bode well for getting the information he needed. Sometimes it was too hard to be patient with regular people.
“You won’t find that information here. Get out.”
Regina looked quickly from one man to the other. She pursed her lips and sashayed over to Tyler.
“About five miles due west of here, Mr. Calhoun. You can’t miss it.” She turned and leveled an expression of triumph at her fiancé. “Step aside, all three of you. And get your hands away from those pistols, Jack.”
“Jesus Christ, Regina. I can tell by looking at this ‘gentleman’ that he’s just a goddamned bounty hunter. And you’re telling him where to find the bastard that set men like him on Nicky’s tail.” Raymond was forcing the words through clenched teeth.
“There’s no need to get so upset, Raymond. He could get the information from anyone in town. I was only being neighborly,” she said.
Tyler could see there was a hell of a lot more going on here than a simple lover’s spat. He didn’t want to know about it and he sure didn’t want to be part of it. Time to go. He stepped toward the door, ready in a moment to do battle, strangely hoping he wouldn’t have to. He had respect for men who protected their own. Nonetheless, he’d kill them if necessary.
“You don’t want to dance with me,” he spoke softly, but clearly. No one moved. No one even flinched from their position.
“Raymond, Jack, and Trevor,” the little blonde interjected, “I will never forgive any of you if harm comes to this stranger because of the three of you. Now, move out of the way and let him pass.”
Dead silence met her order.
“Raymond Malloy. You move this instant, or I will let the whole town in on our little secret this Sunday in church.”
The men blocking the door looked shocked. They all stopped like deer in a hunter’s sights.
Tyler took advantage of the moment and headed out the door. As he passed, the men stepped inside as if in a slumber. They weren’t paying much attention to him any more. Apparently the little blonde’s threat was enough to numb them like a mountain stream. Definitely time to go.
“Much obliged, ma’am.” He glanced at Regina as he passed. He forced himself not to react when she winked at him.
Holy shit.
Whatever her secret was, it was a powerful one—powerful enough to keep a man, and his brothers, whipped into submission.
“Watch your back, Calhoun,” hissed Raymond. “Nicky has a lot of brothers.”
Tyler didn’t bother to answer. He moved into the deepening darkness outside and untied his horse. None of the men followed him out, but he felt at least one pair of eyes glued to his back. He was waiting for a bullet from the Hothead to slam into him. But nothing happened.
Was that disappointment or relief?
Mounting Sable, he turned west and headed out to find Owen Hoffman’s ranch and accept the bounty on one Nicky Malloy. This could get really interesting. He loved it when there was more to a story than a simple robbery and murder. Hostile brothers added a little spice to his life.
———
Following the little blonde’s directions, Tyler reached the Hoffman ranch just after nightfall. As he headed up toward the buildings in the distance, he noticed a few men hanging around the corral watching him. By the look of them, Tyler would bet that at least half of them were either escaped convicts or wanted men. He’d captured or killed enough of them to know these fit that bill. Apparently Owen Hoffman liked to hire some unusual ranch hands.
Ranch hands, my ass, more like mercenaries. They were there to kill who needed to be killing.
Owen Hoffman was obviously not the upstanding rancher he painted himself to be in his letters. Yet a little bit more flavor for the mix.
When he arrived at the big red barn, a skinny kid was waiting outside. He had filthy brown hair, no shoes, and his pants resembled a bizarre clump of patches rather than an entire piece of clothing. He looked to be about fifteen, undernourished, and as clean as a pig in a wallow. Reminded him a bit of himself about fifteen years ago.
“You Calhoun?”
Tyler nodded.
“Mr. Hoffman expects ya at the main house,” the boy mumbled.
Hoffman clearly wanted to get to business immediately. Tyler was the same way. He didn’t accept, or deliver, any shit.” Make sure he gets oats,” Tyler said as he handed the reins over to the boy. “And a good rub down.”
“Yessir.” The boy gulped as he studied the dirt under his feet.
Grabbing his saddlebags and the scabbard containing his Winchester, Tyler headed toward the sprawling homestead. He wasn’t going to leave anything of value for any of those sons of bitches to grab. He didn’t want to have to kill them for it. It was too late in the day for that.
“Calhoun?” asked a nasally voice as Tyler approached the ranch house.
Tyler saw a portly man standing in the door, the light illuminating his balding head. He nodded in response to the question even as his hand tightened on his rifle. Every one of his well-honed instincts was at attention. Regardless of his appearance, this was a dangerous man.
“Come on in.”
Tyler followed the man into the house, surprised to see him turn his back on his guest. Tyler turned his back on no one, especially someone armed as well as he was.
The house was enormous by ranch standards. It was also furnished to the hilt with chairs, tables, a piano, what he thought was a harp, gee-gaws, and all kinds of shiny-looking objects filling every corner and cranny. A huge stone fireplace dominated the room. No expense was spared to create this household. Turning to speak, Hoffman indicated to a rather ugly chair.
“Sit,” he ordered.
Tyler made no move to sit. Hoffman eyed him as thoroughly as he himself was being scrutinized. Hoffman’s eyes had a rheumy cast; his nose was red and mottled. A sheen of perspiration covered his forehead and wisps of gray and blond hairs stuck up, forming a frizzy halo. He huffed out a long breath.
“You are Tyler Calhoun?” he ask
ed.
Tyler nodded. “I am.”
“Then sit and let’s get down to business.” Hoffman went over to the table by the far wall and poured himself three fingers of whiskey into a thick crystal glass. He didn’t offer any to Tyler. And Tyler did not sit down.
“I expected you last week. Don’t know why you took your sweet time about getting here, but I’m glad you finally arrived. As I wrote, I need you to track and find Nicky Malloy. Been gone more than three years now. I tried six bounty hunters without any luck. There’s a file right there next to you on the table, reports and such. Read it. You can read, can’t you?” Without waiting for an answer, he continued. “You’re supposed to be the best. Find Nicky so I can have the pleasure of hearing that skinny neck crack at the end of a hangman’s noose for the murder of my brother.”
Tyler nodded again. This man made the hackles on the back of his neck rise, and his gut instinct told him not to trust him. But no one ever said you had to like the person offering a bounty, just the money he paid. He picked up the leather file and tucked it under his arm.
“What about the money Malloy stole?”
Calhoun harrumphed. “Doubt there’s anything left of that. After three years, I’m sure it’s all spent. I just want revenge, boy, sweet revenge.”
No one had called Tyler “boy” in twenty years. He didn’t like it then, and he sure as hell didn’t like it from this puffed-up peacock of a man.
“The name’s Calhoun, not boy.”
That seemed to catch Hoffman’s attention. The man’s brows slammed together as he looked at Tyler over the top of his whiskey glass. Damn, he should have stopped at that shit-ass saloon in that pretend town for a drink of bad whiskey. Watching this fool drink what was sure to be prime whiskey was pure torture.
“Okay, Calhoun. There’s a guestroom, head of the stairs. Bunk there tonight. Read up and we’ll talk in the morning.” Hoffman downed the last of the amber liquid in his glass and smacked his lips noisily as the glass hit the table with a thump.
The Bounty Page 1