OUTLAW GIRL
By
Margaret Tanner
Copyright © 2017 Margaret Tanner
Thank you for downloading this e-book. It remains the copyrighted property of the author and may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed for any commercial or non-commercial use without permission from the author and publisher. Quotes used in reviews are the exception. No alteration of content is allowed. If you enjoy this book, then please encourage your friends to purchase their own copy.
This story is a work of fiction, and some literary license has been taken regarding setting. All characters are a figment of the author’s imagination.
Cover Art by Charlene Raddon
Please Note: This Book was previously published as Gunslinger’s Daughter
Chapter One
Dakota Territory, 1876
The Honorable Marcus Lindquist cursed inwardly as another bump almost unseated him. What did this idiot of a driver think he was doing? He had been forced to leave England to save the Lindquist name from being dragged into disrepute, now he was exiled here in the American wilderness.
Sylvia had ruined his life, betrayed him. Cast him aside to marry the heir to a Dukedom. He had been contemplating marriage and settling down to produce heirs, when he had met and become infatuated with Lady Sylvia Hayworth.
“Ya have to stay the night here.” Their uncouth driver poked his head through the stagecoach window.
“Too late to travel on the road now,” growled the man who was riding shotgun.
“Road!” Marcus bit off an oath. Is that what they called it? Rutted track seemed more appropriate. Stepping stiffly from the stagecoach he waited for the other occupants to alight.
He stamped his feet to get his circulation moving again after eight hours in the cramped stagecoach. They had stopped only to eat and change the horses; now he was forced to spend the night in some revolting, bug-infested establishment, undoubtedly run by villainous riff raff. At least he hadn’t been scalped by marauding Indians or robbed by outlaws.
A good night’s sleep would help. The voyage from England had been nothing short of a disaster. Still, it did have a few lighter moments, including a troupe of eight painted, pretty chorus girls who had kept the ship’s company entertained.
“This way.” The driver left his passengers to pick up their own hand luggage.
The roadside inn, he wasn’t sure what the American’s would call such a place, looked anything, but impressive although light spilling out on to the porch offered a little reassurance. A slovenly looking man met them at the door, and Marcus shuddered with distaste. Fastidious in his own habits, if this oaf’s appearance was anything to go by, he teetered on the brink of a hideous nightmare. Their driver, having dumped them like pieces of flotsam, disappeared without a word. Not even bothering to hide his disdain, Marcus stepped across the threshold.
Bare wooden floors had been swept clean. The interior walls appeared to be made from logs. Several men were playing cards and they nodded without much interest. He returned their greeting in a like manner. Another group, huddled together in a corner, caught his eye.
The innkeeper, following his gaze, lowered his voice conspiratorially. “They’re special deputies coming to escort Johnny Valentine from Jackson’s Crossing to the Marshal in Deadwood.” He leaned closer, his rancid breath blowing in Marcus’ face smelt so nauseating he nearly retched. Thank goodness, he had eaten hours ago, otherwise he would surely have lost everything in his stomach. “Rumor has it his friends are planning an escape.”
Marcus stepped back a pace. “Oh?” His eyes flicked toward the group again. Shrugging his indifference, he started to move away. His fellow passengers, a father and son, headed straight to the bar. It was a long, paneled affair with an iron footrail; nearby was a row of spittoons.
His smelly, tenacious tormentor followed him obviously loath to lose his captive audience. “You’ve heard of Johnny Valentine?”
“No, my good man, I have not.”
“He’s an outlaw. Been running wild for a couple of years now, treats the law with scorn. Usually operates a bit further north, though.” The innkeeper scratched at his head. Marcus winced. Surely this oaf wasn’t lousy?
“You don’t say. My room, if you please. I’m in need of a wash, food and bed, in that order.”
Scrubbing his hand across his chin Marcus felt the rough stubble of beard. He needed a shave. It would have to wait until morning because he couldn’t be bothered now. How he missed servants catering to his every whim. I never knew what I had until I lost it. He hadn’t eaten in hours; food, however unpalatable, was now a necessity.
“We have a private sitting room where you could eat, Sir, when you’ve refreshed yourself.”
“Thank you.” Marcus followed the innkeeper down a hallway until they came to a door standing ajar. A lantern resting on a wooden dresser partly lit the room. There was a matching wardrobe, large brass bedstead and nothing else. Another second door probably led outside.
“I’ll bring you hot water if you want to shave tonight, Sir.”
“Thank you, the water in the jug will suffice for now. I’ll shave in the morning.” He dismissed the man after ascertaining where the private sitting room was situated.
As he deposited his bag inside the cavernous wardrobe, Marcus grimaced at his travel worn clothes and disheveled appearance. His once immaculate trousers were shockingly creased, and his white silk stock looked grubby. Thank heavens his swell London friends couldn’t see him now. It would be too humiliating. He spent a fortune on clothes; his tailor, one of the most exclusive in London, numbered royalty among his select clientele.
Later, as he ate beef stew and mashed potatoes, washed down with a glass of whiskey, he once more brooded on his misfortune.
His own exploits were mild compared to those of his father he thought morosely. There was only one thing worse than a reformed drunk—a reformed rake. His chances of making a suitable marriage in England were almost negligible now. Not that he particularly wanted to marry if he couldn’t have Sylvia.
How could he have been so stupid and reckless? It was Sylvia’s fault. He had gone quite mad for a time after she discarded him. Normally, he acted with discretion when dealing with women, but he had crossed the line between acceptable philandering and common decency. He had been left with no option but to resign his Commission in the army and flee England immediately.
* * *
“George, we can’t let you do it. It’s too dangerous,” Johnny said frantically, as she pulled the kerchief down from her face. “If you get caught, they could hang you.” Three horses, still breathing heavily from their headlong flight, stood close together. The night was black and thick with menace as the riders argued.
“It’s the only way,” George said. “I’ll lead the posse off in the opposite direction. If we split up, we’ll confuse them.”
The sound of pursuit came once more, a sudden pounding of hooves echoing in the stillness. George heeled her horse into motion. She gave a reckless yell that resounded loudly in the darkness.
The others must get away and separation was their best chance. If she got caught, even dressed in men’s clothing, she could bluff her way out by weeping or even throwing a fainting fit. Everyone knew her as George, a girl who never wore anything but men’s clothing.
It had been foolish getting involved, but Johnny was her brother and she couldn’t let him down. She had to keep Billy under control, too. His reckless bravado bordered on dangerous. Please, God, let them get away safely.
As the gap between her and the posse narrowed, she concentrated on outrunning them. Crouching low in the saddle, she suddenly veered off the road and galloped toward the trees.
It was sheer bad luck a low han
ging branch unseated her, and before she could scramble up, her mare bolted. Loud hoofbeats sent her diving for cover behind a rocky outcrop. She lay still, hardly daring to breathe, willing her heart to stop its frantic beating. Her pursuers came so close she could have reached out a hand and touched them. She gritted her teeth to stop them chattering from fear and cold.
As she waited for the posse to disappear into the night George debated what to do for the best. Undoubtedly, they would find the mare then they would return. It would not take much backtracking on their part to follow her trail, even in the dark. She had blundered about like a stampeding herd of cattle, flattening bushes, breaking off small branches and leaving a trail anyone but a blind man could follow. In some ways, it was a pity she hadn’t ridden her own horse because Brandy would make for home, but it had been too risky.
Getting to her feet, George dusted down her close-fitting pants and overlarge man’s shirt. She decided to head north in the direction of home, which was about ten miles across country. Thinking about the arduous journey ahead made her shudder, but it had to be better than being caught by the posse and dragged off to jail for helping an outlaw with a price on his head.
She shivered in the freezing frosty air. The excitement of the chase when the three of them were together was a whole lot different to being stranded out here alone. Pull yourself together and stop dithering.
She set off at a fast trot. Her boots crushed the ground hugging wildflowers so ruthlessly it would have pained her at any other time, but escape was paramount. After what seemed like hours, lights appeared up ahead. Her heart pounded, her breath came out in long tortured gasps, and she developed a stitch in her side. Sheer desperation gave her the strength to force her wavering limbs onward.
Jewell’s stagecoach depot, thank goodness. Sam Jewell was an old friend of her uncle, McGuire. He would hide her for the night then loan her a horse in the morning. Lady luck seems to be with me she thought, giving a choking laugh of relief, only hope it’s with the boys, as well.
It was over a mile to the stage depot, but she set off with renewed vigor, keeping to the trees and brush as much as possible in case the posse returned. She pulled her coat even more closely around her and hunched her shoulders in an endeavor to keep warm. Strange how still it was, but this stillness could prove an ally because any sounds of pursuit would carry on the night air.
If only I’d been born a man I could have joined up with Johnny and roamed the prairie with him. Most of her life she had lived in a male household. She couldn’t remember her parents, Christina and Jake.
McGuire had reared her after Aunt Molly died about twelve years ago. No one outside the family knew Johnny was her brother. Safer that way, McGuire always said. Whenever she asked him about the mystery, he promised to tell her when the time was right. Surprisingly, Johnny agreed with him. In fact, he was even more insistent than McGuire about their blood ties being kept a secret. A matter of life and death he always said.
She couldn’t understand McGuire’s logic, yet it never entered her head to defy him. She had lived in his house and been brought up like his own sons. Billy, at seventeen, was a few months younger than her. Tom, the eldest at twenty-three, worked on a ranch in Texas. Danny had been eighteen when the sheriff mistook him for a cattle rustler and shot him dead.
Danny had rustled a few head of cattle as most poor ranchers did, but there had been no need to shoot him down like a rabid dog. McGuire, like some of the locals, helped the outlaws whenever they could. Many of them had been persecuted and hounded into crime. She stoked her anger to counteract her fear. Sons of poor settlers got little chance to make anything out of life with the justice system biased toward the wealthy ranchers and their hired guns.
McGuire supplemented their income with a bit of cattle rustling on the side. She had helped him change brands sometimes or watched as he branded strays they had found on the open range. His philosophy had been simple. If they belonged to someone they wouldn’t be left wandering around, so any man who rounded them up should be entitled to keep them.
George gasped in shock on arriving at the stage depot. By the number of horses tied to the hitching rail, the posse was already here. She bit her lip to stop it trembling. It wasn’t easy being brave on your own. Her teeth chattered with cold and she could barely feel her toes; were they frost bitten? She remembered hearing somewhere about frost-bitten limbs turning black and having to be amputated. Could you walk without toes she wondered frantically, trying to control her terror.
Edging along the porch, she peered through the window and spied a group of men sitting at a table drinking and playing cards.
A sudden pounding of hooves intruded on the stillness. Her mouth dried up and her hands shook even though she clenched them tightly. Her pursuers were hot on her heels. If she went in through the main entrance, the drinkers would see her; if she waited out here, she would be discovered. Of course, her pursuers had not seen her clearly in the darkness but loitering near the stage depot at night wearing men’s clothing, would arouse suspicion.
Several doors opened on to the porch, so she made a dive for the nearest one. Once inside, she closed the door and slumped against it, feeling weak and exhausted. When her eyes became accustomed to the gloom, she saw the room was empty, obviously lady luck still smiled upon her.
I’ll stay the night here, better than sleeping outside and perhaps freezing to death. In the morning, she would ask Sam for food and a fresh horse to make good her escape.
Feeling her way to the bed, George leaned against it to pull off her boots, which she shoved out of sight. After a final glance around, she turned down the covers and thankfully, crawled in. It could not be more than about nine o’clock. She was famished, having not eaten for hours, although food was one luxury that would not be forthcoming tonight. It would be madness to risk capture because of hunger. Sleeping in pants and a shirt didn’t appeal to her much either, but by the sounds of activity going on outside, this room was going to be a haven.
The men stomping around outside, spoke loudly. “He can’t have gotten too far on foot.”
“Let’s have a drink and a plate of hot vittles,” another said. Their voices faded as they disappeared inside.
The minutes ticked slowly by and George started to relax. The bed felt comfortable, quite warm even, so she stretched her legs out straight for a moment, wriggled her toes then curled back into a ball, which was the way she always slept. It had been an anxious, emotion filled day. The warm comfort of the bed lulled her gently, her eyes grew heavy and her last thoughts were of Johnny. He had only come back into her life a couple of years ago, yet she loved him as if they had spent their whole lives together. He was brave, kind-hearted and resourceful, and the mystery surrounding him only added to his aura.
***
George would never know what wakened her, the lamplight or the man’s savage oath.
“What do you think you’re doing in here, boy?” The aristocratic Englishman looked very tall, she noticed fearfully. His blue eyes, contrasting starkly against his dark wavy hair, were full of such cold fury, she trembled.
“Get out.”
“Please, there’s a posse after me.”
“Too bad. I don’t share my bed with pretty boys.”
He strode toward the door. His hand reached for the knob as she dived out of bed.
“Please.” Her headlong flight loosened the pins holding back her hair, and it tumbled over her shoulders in a tangled mass. “They’ll shoot me.” She clutched at his arm.
His mouth opened and closed in amazement. His eyes narrowed speculatively. “What do you think you’re playing at? Ah!” He snapped his fingers. “You come with the room.”
“No! No!” Her frantic hands fluttered against his chest. “I thought the room was empty. I hid here because the posse was after me.” Fear forced her confession. “Don’t let them find me.”
He glowered at her.
“I’ll leave as soon as they go. I promise”
A fist pounded against the door. “Open up in there.”
“Please.” With tear filled eyes she silently begged the man not to betray her.
His mouth compressed, his nostrils flared, George knew she was doomed.u
He hesitated for a moment before barking out. “I’m in bed. What do you want?” He stepped away from the doorway, dragging her with him.
“We want to search the room for the outlaw, Johnny Valentine. Unlock the door.”
“I certainly will not. There are no outlaws in here. What do you take me for?” Even though he spoke in anger, George recognized his upper-class English accent.
What could she do? The rattle of a key turning in the lock caused her heart to almost catapult out of her chest. She frantically prayed for a miracle. Even if this English gentleman did not betray her, she had no place to hide.
“They’re coming in,” she whispered fearfully.
He grabbed her before she could even utter a protest and flung her on the bed. Diving on top of her, he somehow managed to pull the bedclothes over them both. The weight of his body pinned hers to the mattress. Her skin burned as if it had suddenly caught fire. His breath, smelling slightly of whisky, lifted the loosened strands of hair at the side of her throat.
The door swung open. The Englishman stifled her cry of terror with his mouth. His lips felt warm and firm. The bristles on his unshaven cheeks rasped against her soft skin. Her breasts were flattened against the hard wall of his chest. His arms were strong, well-muscled like the rest of his body. She could feel his hardness. His strength. The sheer animal magnetism of him. She felt a swirling warmth deep within her body.
When he released her lips, she felt strangely bereft. Turning his head, he said casually. “Can’t you see I’m, er, busy?” Propping himself up on one elbow, he kept her hidden with his body.
The man snickered.
Outlaw Girl Page 1