Vigilante Sin: Steamy western with a paranormal twist. (GloryLand Book 1)

by Lana Gotham

  Vigilante Sin

  GloryLand, Volume 1

  Lana Gotham

  Published by Lana Gotham, 2018.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  VIGILANTE SIN

  First edition. April 10, 2018.

  Copyright © 2018 Lana Gotham.

  Written by Lana Gotham.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Further Reading: The Ball

  Also By Lana Gotham

  About the Author

  Life is too short to read boring books! This is for all of my amazing readers. You guys are all as bad-ass as Sheriff Alyssa. Go find your Vigilante!

  Chapter 1

  Mary-Bell Daigle lay in her four poster bed, stretched across aubergine silk sheets like someone’s dead-eyed lover.

  “Shit.” The word escaped under my breath. Mary-Bell was the fourth victim in so many weeks. The first woman.

  She’d been murdered while wearing a dress that cost more than everything I owned, not counting my horse, gun, and house. And with her pale, flawless skin and silken dark hair, she reminded me of a porcelain doll put to bed by a doting owner. Not the latest victim of GloryLand’s first serial killer.

  “Whatcha think, Sheriff? It’s the same feller?” my deputy, Tom, asked. He spat a wad of tobacco juice onto the floor, staining the light pine with a deep brown splat. Mary-Belle would have kicked us out for such an offense, but the way things were, she wasn’t going to be complaining.

  I drew a breath as I considered the words to say to my deputy, taking the time to dull their usually sharp edges.

  Of course it’s the same killer. Four victims, all with their necks broken and their right hand draped over their mouths, shushing them into eternal silence. And they were all been posed just like Mary-Bell, spread across their beds.

  With red brown hair and green eyes that always seemed on the verge of laughter, Tom was as handsome as he was dumb. Which was very. He was also loyal, so instead of snapping I said, “Looks that way, Tom.”

  “Well shit.” My deputy echoed my sentiment.

  The killing wasn’t the surprise. GloryLand had its share of killings, but they’d always been upright. Proper, even. Duels broke out over hands of seven card stud gone bad, or because some slick, Romeo-cowboy besmirched the honor of another man’s wife or daughter. They were natural killings. They followed the code. They were moral.

  But this was murder, and there wasn’t anything moral about that. Someone was offing people faster than we could dig holes to dump them in. And not just any people, either. The victims were the kinds of citizens that you’d never expect to find murdered—in their beds or otherwise.

  I looked around the room, wondering what I’d missed. At the Daigle home, just like in the homes of every other victim, I’d found no clues. No forced entry. No Blood. Nothing. The crime scene was spotless, and even smelled like cinnamon and lemons. A small table stood upright beneath the window and held a vase of sunflower blooms. Nothing was overturned or out of place. Red dust collected along the window sill and at its base, but GloryLand was a dustbowl—red dirt was everywhere, in the homes of everyone. And when it rained, there was red mud.

  A spotless room save for red dirt that was in every house in town wasn’t exactly a clue-chocked crime scene.

  The folks around town were getting restless. I needed to put this crime to bed and soon. Being the first woman Sheriff in a town like GloryLand wasn’t easy. I had to do everything a male Sheriff would do, and I had to do it faster and better.

  Good thing I was faster and better. Good thing I didn’t give a shit about people’s opinions. It was my job to keep them safe and lawful. It was not my job to make them like me. Not that I could have anyway.

  Tom smiled around his wad of tobacco, no doubt excited over having a real case to solve. For someone so simple, Tom loved to read. Especially detective mysteries. He fancied himself Watson to my Sherlock. I didn’t care for those detective stories, personally. But if they made Tom happy, then I’d let him have his little fantasy.

  “You should probably try and look a little less excited about it,” I added.

  Instantly his grin vanished. “Sorry, Sheriff.”

  I reached down and closed Mary-Bell’s eyes. The woman was 33, only a year older than me, and her eyes would never again open. I’d never liked Mary-Bell, but nobody deserved this.

  “And one more thing, Tom,” I said.

  “Yeah, Sheriff?”

  “Don’t spit on a dead woman’s floors. Have a little decency.”

  “Sorry, Sheriff. But you know, Mary-Bell ain’t going to care one way or the other.”

  Even though I’d had the same thought, I gave him a hard look. Scarlet crept up his neck and colored his already ruddy complexion. At a burly 6’4 he didn’t look like the kind of man who would blush. He didn’t look like the kind of man who’d play second fiddle to a woman, either. But he did both readily.

  The cowboy started following me around after I’d saved his life in the big bank robbery four years ago. I’d finally decided if he wasn’t going to leave me alone, then he might as well be useful. So I’d deputized him. It was an honor Tom took very seriously. Most days I didn’t regret it.

  “So what’d we do next, Sherriff?”

  “We solve this thing, Tom.” I walked to the bedroom door and ran my hand over the door frame, as I’d done on both the front and back entry ways. I’d already checked the bedroom windows, and the perimeter of the house. I’d circled the room at least four times. I didn’t know what I was looking for, exactly. At that moment—I would have settled for anything that even remotely suggested a clue. But all I had was red dust.

  “No sign of forced entry,” I mumbled, mostly to myself, yet again.

  “So what you thinking?” Tom whispered, “The husband?” He opened his eyes wide at the idea.

  And for good reason. A person couldn’t just go around accusing Viktor Daigle of murdering his wife.

  “Normally, yes. But that wouldn’t make sense, would it?” I said, trying to guide the deputy to the right conclusion.

  “I guess not, Sheriff.” Tom started to spit another squirt of tobacco juice onto the floor before remembering his earlier reprimand, and aiming it out the window instead. “Now, of course I know why that wouldn’t make sense, but maybe you should just go ahead and tell me what you’re thinking—so’s we can make sure we’re on the same page.”

  I stifled a chuckle, “Good idea. I’m n
ot saying that Viktor Daigle didn’t want to kill his wife. Everyone knows Mary-Bell slept around and Viktor ain’t exactly the kind of man to let himself be humiliated. But what about the other victims? Let’s say he is the killer, and he killed those other people first, then why would he kill Mary-Bell and draw our attention? With his kind of money, he could have just paid to have her disappear.” I paused and took in Tom’s slack face. I turned to walk the room one more time. “I guess he could have killed her in the same way after the other murders happened, so that he could be done with her, but let the serial killer take the fall—but it doesn’t seem likely. There is no way he could have gotten everything right. All of the little details are exactly the same, the kinds of things no one but me and you would know about.”

  Tom’s brows were raised, and his mouth hung slightly open in what I thought of as his confused expression.

  I gave up trying to explain. Sometimes short and direct was better. “No, Tom. I don’t think it was Viktor.”

  Tom closed his mouth and nodded, his relief evident on his face. “Good thing, too. Ain’t like we could go arresting Mr. Daigle. He owns the whole damned town.”

  “He don’t own me, Tom.” I bristled. “And if I thought he’d done it, then arrest him is exactly what I’d do.”

  Tom considered what I’d said. “You’re right. He don’t own us.”

  We continued with our fruitless investigation for another fifteen minutes or so, and still got nowhere. I had the feeling I was missing something—something important. It was like having a word on the tip of your tongue, but try as you might to say it, you couldn’t get it out of your mouth.

  Tom gazed out the window. It wasn’t even noon. “You want to get a drink Sheriff?”

  “Not yet. We got work to do.”

  “Right, right. I just thought it might help, you know? Loosen up the ole membranes.” Tom tapped his forehead with his index finger.

  “The what?”

  “You know, Sheriff. The ole membranes.”

  My mouth dropped open. “Tom. Do you mean it’ll loosen up your brain?”

  Again Tom’s eyebrows shot upward, and his nose scrunched. He spat another wad of tobacco juice out the window. “Yeah, sure, Sheriff. But ain’t that the same thing? Like toe-may-toe and tah-may-toe? Brain and Membranes?”

  “Tom, why...what?”

  “It’s the power of that deduction reasoner. Both words end with brain. I think this new book I am reading is making me a bit smarter Sheriff. Try and keep up okay—I can loan it to you if you like.”

  I stared at my deputy. I couldn’t believe I let this man walk around with a gun strapped to his hip. I shook my head. “Sure, Tom. Whatever you say. If you want a lunch time beer, then that’s what we’ll get. I need to do some thinking anyway.”

  Tom grinned. “See? You’ll be putting the ole membranes to work.”

  I sighed and shook my head. “Let’s go. I guess my membranes could use some loosening.” I chuckled as I lead the way out of Mary-Bell Daigle’s bedroom and gave the signal for doc to take over. I needed to talk to Cheryl at the Rusty Nail anyway.

  Chapter 2

  The air inside The Rusty Nail was a mixture of stale cigarette smoke, cheap whiskey, and men damp with sweat from working farms or driving cattle under the desert sun. Occasionally the scent of sex would waft through the bar, from where the women upstairs worked hard at earning their living.

  Sounds of arguing and laughter and everything in between was loud with the absence of music. Cheryl, the bartender, had trouble finding another piano player since Jo Cartwright was found dead in his bed with his right hand draped over his lips. He’d been the second victim, killed days after the first.

  GloryLand didn’t have much to entice a player from one of the bigger cities, and any other pianist were more comfortable in the chapel than the saloon. So The Rusty Nail remained musician-less.

  I slid onto my normal stool in the middle of the bar and waited for my eyes to adjust to the dim light. The room quieted for a moment as men looked up from their hands of seven card stud. When I didn’t move to arrest anyone, they all went back to their games. It had been like that for the past few weeks—everywhere I went I was under a microscope. The tense pressure to catch our killer ran high.

  It wasn’t even like anyone cared about the dead, either. It was more about pride. How dare somebody think they can run around and kill our folks under everyone’s noses? What kind of coward does that, anyhow? I didn’t drop my gaze until every last man was back to minding their own damn business.

  Cheryl wasn’t behind the bar. Next to me, Tom’s mouth was slack and his brows raised. It was his confused face.

  “Where do you reckon Cheryl ran off to?” He asked. Even as he said her name, I noticed the faint hue of pink seemed to brighten his cheeks.

  Did Tom have a crush? On Cheryl? Poor guy—she was so far outside of his realm of possibilities.

  I shrugged, then walked behind the bar. I poured two glasses of whiskey, slid one to my deputy, and then sauntered back to my stool.

  “Beats me,” I said. “She ain’t far though, if she left this place open with nobody to mind the bar.”

  We didn’t have to wonder long. Upstairs a man hollered Get out of here, at the same time a woman’s high pitched scream cut through the bar room noise. A second later Leland Worst barreled down the stairs in nothing but his hat and his long-johns. He clutched his boots to his chest. Cheryl was behind him with her shot gun stuck between his shoulder blades. “You don’t pay your bar tab and you think you gonna spend money on pussy? You’d better think again.” She pushed him with the barrel of her gun. “Get your sorry ass out of here and don’t come back until you settle up your debt.”

  The bar erupted into howls of laughter as Leland ran across the room toward the swinging saloon doors. He dropped one of his boots, and when he stopped to pick it up, Cheryl cocked her shotgun.

  The man thought the better of it and left his boot behind as he quickened his pace.

  Cheryl didn’t lower her weapon until Leland was outside and the laughter had died down. She picked up the boot and chunked it into a barrel in the cornet where she threw random trash that was left behind each night. The barrel held everything from bandanas to a pair of panties.

  “That sorry good-for-nothing,” she mumbled. She walked behind the bar and hung the gun in its usual place on the wall behind the glass ware.

  Next to me, Tom stared with dreamy eyes. His lips curled into a slow smile. “Ms. Cheryl,” he said. “That was...that...that was...”

  “Spit it out, Tom,” the bar keep said, though there was no anger in her voice. “A woman don’t have all day.”

  “That was...that was something else.’” The faint pink blossomed into full scarlet across Tom’s cheeks, but his smiled stayed put.

  “Thanks, deputy,” Cheryl said. She winked at Tom, and I thought he was going to fall off of his stool.

  Cheryl had creamy, light brown skin and brown eyes that shown with flecks of gold. Her black hair hung in loose ringlets to her corseted waist. Cheryl’s skirts and boots were plain, and she wore no jewelry, but the woman didn’t require adornment—she was beautiful on her own. She was also one of the few people in GloryLand who I wouldn’t want to get into a gunfight with, as well as one of the fewer people I considered a true friend.

  “So what brings the law into my bar during lunch time, Sheriff? You here to scare my upstanding patrons?” She smirked as she propped her elbows on the bar and leaned forward. I noticed Tom as he tried his best not to notice the woman’s breast heaving from the top of her corset. I shook my head. Cheryl was messing with him and he was lapping it up.

  Too bad she’d never give him the time of day. Tom was definitely handsome enough for my friend’s tastes, unfortunately Cheryl was as brilliant as Tom was dim. No, I could definitely not see the two of them together.

  “Nah,” I said, my eyes rolling skyward. “Tom here thinks that we need a drink to loosen up our memb
ranes.”

  Cheryl’s nose wrinkled. “Your what?” She held up a palm and stood. “You know what? I don’t need to know. If you are spending money, you can loosen whatever you want.”

  At that moment, a robust red head pounded down the stairs. “Cheryl? Cheryl honey?” The woman’s voice was deep and tobacco-roughened.

  “Speaking of loosening things for money,” Cheryl said flatly and I snickered. Tom pretended not to know what she was talking about. Who was I kidding—it was Tom. He probably didn’t know what she was talking about.

  The red head didn’t stop until she was standing next to me at the bar. She wore a gold dress and matching boa. Fine lines criss-crossed her ivory skin and two circles of rouge gave her the appearance of a harlequin clown. “Sheriff,” she drawled. “Tom.”

  “What can I do for you, Jenny?” Cheryl asked the aging Madame.

  “Cheryl, honey, I know you own the place now, but why’d you go and kick Leland out? He had almost an hour with Charlotte and didn’t pay. He owes me money.”

  “Get in line,” Cheryl said.

  “Well what am I supposed to do if you go around harassing my customers and kicking them out? It ain’t right.”

  “Jenny, your girls are the only whores in at least a fifty mile radius. This town is sixty percent men. I’d say the last thing you need to worry about is business. When it comes to supply and demand—you hold all the cards.”

  “But still—”

  “I don’t have time for this.” Cheryl turned to the long table of glassware behind the bar and began to wipe down the already clean drinking glasses.

  Madame Jenny threw her hands in the air and turned on the heels of shoes. Her scowl transformed into her usual, bright smile when one of the men from the nearest poker table walked over. She draped her arm over his shoulder and led him away. A moment later, I saw them head up the stairs.

  “I don’t even know what that old biddy is complaining about,” Cheryl griped, turning back to me once the coast was clear. “She thinks she has a right to bring all her shit to me. Well, she don’t.”