Outlaw's Bride (2 page)

She walked across the room to the fireplace and gazed at the shiny music box that sat on the mantel. With a shaking hand, she lifted the lid and the achingly familiar strains of a waltz surrounded her. In her mind, Mattie pictured her mother and father, forever young in her memory, dancing to the music box's melody.

She closed her eyes and her parents' image was replaced by the gunslinger, dressed completely in black, which made the contrast of his green eyes and blond hair all the more striking. Men like Beaudry attracted trouble like honey attracted bears and she would have been courting danger if she had allowed him to stay.

Mattie dropped the lid back in place, silencing the music. She had chosen the wrong man to waltz with, and would never make the same mistake again.

The following morning, Clint Beaudry tightened the saddle cinch on his sorrel mare and drew a hand along the horse's cream-colored mane. He'd spent the night under the stars instead of renting a room above one of the noisy saloons. Listening to the working girls cater to their customers in the neighboring rooms hadn't appealed to him. Hell, for that matter, none of the whores had appealed to him, either. After a month of no female companionship, he should have welcomed the feel of a woman's soft body, but he hadn't wanted any of them.

As he rolled up his bedroll, his thoughts took him to the widow woman at the boardinghouse. Now,
there
was a lady he wouldn't have minded taking for a tumble between the sheets.

Those sparking violet eyes of Mrs. St. Clair's had set his blood near to boiling and damn near set his hide ablaze. He smiled, recalling her ripe curves and passionate fury, and imagined she'd be a lively bed companion if he could get past her self-righteousness. She had even turned down his impetuous offer of twice her going rate. His impulsiveness must have been provoked by those riveting eyes and the hope that he could slip into her room when only the moon lit the night. Just imagining her lying beneath him, her black hair fanned across a pillow and her eyes clouding with desire, made him grow hard with lust.

Sighing, he reluctantly banished the erotic image from his thoughts. It was a damned shame she was as cold as an undertaker at a hanging. He tied his blanket to the back of the cantle and took one last glance around the camp to make sure he hadn't left anything behind—not that he owned much. For the past year he'd traveled light and far. There was little need for anything but the clothes on his back, his gun, and his traveling gear—except for maybe a glass or two of whiskey in a friendly saloon and the occasional company of an agreeable woman to satisfy his needs.

He stuck his boot toe through the stirrup and hauled himself into the saddle, then lifted his gaze to the blue sky and touched the brim of his hat respectfully. “Maybe today, Em.”

Since his wife's death a year ago, he greeted every day the same. One of these days his swiftness would fail him and he'd join Emily. Until then, he would pursue the man who had raped and murdered her … to hell, if he had to.

The leather creaked beneath his shifting weight as he tapped his heels against his horse's belly. Dakota leapt ahead, as eager as Clint to be on the trail again.

Suddenly Clint felt himself catapulted forward, like he'd been struck in the back with a tree branch. He fell across Dakota's neck and slipped to the ground, hitting the earth face down with a bone-jarring thud that knocked the air from his lungs. Struggling to breathe, Clint sucked in air mixed with mud and coughed. Agony stabbed through him. He managed to turn his head slightly so he wasn't eating dirt and tried to catch his breath.

Warm moistness seeped across his torso and back, and Clint figured the bullet had gone right through him. No doubt about it—he was hurt bad, maybe even dying. What cowardly bastard had shot him in the back?

The sound of a horse's hooves made him freeze. Had the bushwhacker come back to finish the job? Clint painfully reached for his Colt. He clutched the weapon's butt and hoped he had the strength to pull the gun from its holster.

He listened to the person dismount, and through nearly closed eyes he spotted a pair of shiny black boots approaching him. He prayed his would-be murderer would figure he was dead.

“Looks like I got you before you got me, Beaudry,” the stranger said. He nudged Clint with his toe and Clint barely restrained the moan that threatened to escape.

The man squatted down beside him and laid a hand on Clint's shoulder, and Clint held his breath. His ruse must have worked because the man withdrew his hand and straightened. He grunted something, then turned around and strode back to his horse. Leather creaked and the man's horse passed within a few feet of Clint. It was a palomino—like the one the man who'd killed Emily had ridden.

Hatred gave Clint the strength to roll onto his back, but not the power needed to raise his Colt. The receding rider and his golden horse doubled and blurred. Violent shivers overtook Clint and the Colt slipped from his numb fingers. To be so close to vengeance and have it stolen away…

Pain ebbed and flowed through his body, and consciousness wavered. He didn't want to fight anymore. He was tired of battling the darkness … the pain.

No, not yet. Not until I make the bastard pay.

Andy jiggled his fishing line and sighed heavily. He glanced over at Herman, who sat with his back against a tree and a fishing rod in his gnarled hands. The old man's eyes were closed and he could have been sleeping, but Andy knew better.

Nothing was biting, and he wished he'd gone into town to play marbles with Buck and Josh instead. He shifted his numb backside and stifled another sigh.

“Stop movin' around like a hen on a griddle there, boy. Remember, you gotta be smarter'n them trout in order to catch one.”

Sometimes it seemed Herman could see straight through his eyelids.

“We've been here since before sunrise and we haven't had a single nibble,” Andy complained.

“That's ‘cause them critters know we're here. If we stay real quiet, we'll trick 'em into thinkin' we left.”

Andy didn't think so and felt ornery enough to argue. “I reckon they took off upstream to spawn or whatever they do.”

“That's in the spring, not the summer. Nope, they're down there. I can smell 'em.”

Andy sniffed the air, but all he could smell was fishy water and Herman's pipe tobacco. But if Herman said the fish were here, then they were. The old man had an uncanny sense when it came to fishing. Still, it would be just Andy's luck that Herman was wrong today.

The sound of a gunshot nearby interrupted a gray jay's scolding and sent a squirrel into a chattering fit above them.

Herman opened his eyes. “Hunters.”

“How do you know?”

Herman removed his pipe and used a finger to tamp down the smoking tobacco in the bowl. “It was a rifle shot and that's what folks use when they go huntin',” he explained patiently. “Now, iffen it was a revolver, I'd be a mite suspicious. Course I remember a fellah once who used a Navy Colt for huntin'—could hit a prairie chicken from a hundred yards.”

Andy tried to imagine such a feat, but couldn't. His ma wouldn't even let him touch a gun, much less shoot one. He was ten years old—nearly a man. Most of his friends already knew how to use a rifle and some of them had handled a revolver, but all Andy had was a pocketknife his ma had given him for Christmas two years ago.
If I had a pa
, he'd
teach me how to shoot
.

He glanced at Herman—maybe he would show him how to shoot.

Herman sat up straight and his white eyebrows drew together. “There ain't been a second shot.”

Andy looked at Herman, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“Usually there's a second shot to put the critter down.” The spry old man rose and tucked his pipe in his overalls bib pocket, then pulled in his line.

“What're we gonna do?” Andy asked as he copied Herman's motions.

“You stay put. I'm gonna go see what that hunter got.”

Andy shook his head. He wasn't going to stay behind and miss any potential excitement. “I'm coming, too.”

Herman fired him a warning look, which Andy ignored. He wouldn't let Herman treat him like a baby, too.

Carrying his fishing rod, Andy followed the old man across a path through the sparse woods. A few minutes later, Andy heard a horse nicker and the path opened to a small clearing. Herman stopped abruptly and Andy nearly bumped into his back.

“Damn,” the old man muttered.

Andy stepped around him and stopped, shocked. A man lay on the ground with blood staining the green grass around his body. Andy put a hand to his mouth, hoping he wouldn't lose his breakfast.

“You gonna be okay, boy?” Herman asked.

Andy's throat wouldn't work, so he nodded. He forced himself to look again at the man dressed in black, but this time he lifted his gaze to the man's face, rather than his blood-soaked shirt. The boy's stomach flip-flopped as he recognized him. “That's the gunman who stopped by the house yesterday.”

Herman stepped closer and scratched his gray-bearded chin. “Yeah, I seen him in Billy's last night havin' a drink.”

The stranger groaned and Herman quickly knelt beside him, placing a hand on his chest. “Looks like the Reaper ain't got him yet.” He pulled a wad of cloth from his pocket and pressed it against the man's side. “Andy—catch that horse and ride back for help or this feller's gonna die.”

Andy's heart pounded in his chest as he tiptoed toward the horse, trying not to scare her. He finally got close enough to grasp the reins that hung to the ground. Leading the mare to a stump, Andy mounted the animal, then gave the horse's sides a kick with his heels. The sorrel leapt forward, almost unseating him. The boy had to grip the saddle horn with one hand as he used the other to steer the horse.

Ten minutes later, he drew the mare to a halt in front of his ma's boardinghouse. She'd know what to do. He slipped to the ground and his legs almost collapsed beneath him. He had to wait a moment until his knees stopped wobbling.

“Ma!” Andy hollered as he ran up the porch steps and into the house. “Ma, where are you?”

Mattie rushed into the foyer as she wiped bread dough from her hands. Seeing her son in one piece, she breathed silent thanks, then took hold of his shoulders. “What's wrong, Andy? What happened?”

“We… f-found a man … hurt bad. He was shot,” Andy said in between gasps. “Need help.”

Mattie removed her apron and tossed it over the banister. “You stay here while I go get Dr. Murphy.”

Mattie raised her skirt hem as she dashed out to the hitching post. Though Green Valley was a small town, it was large enough to have both a fulltime doctor and a lawman.

Mattie soon dismounted in front of Kevin Murphy's office and flew in without knocking. The young doctor glanced up from his desk, his somber gray eyes magnified slightly behind round spectacles.

“You have to come quickly,” Mattie exclaimed. “Andy says there's a wounded man outside of town who needs help.”

Kevin rolled down his shirtsleeves and grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair. “What's wrong with him?”

“Andy said he was shot.”

Kevin met Mattie's gaze. “You'd better get Sheriff Atwater, too. If there's been foul play, he'll have to look into it.” He leaned over to snag his medical bag from the desk. “I'll need your help. Meet me in the livery.”

Fifteen minutes later, Mattie sat on the wagon's hard seat beside Kevin as they rolled into her yard. Sheriff Atwater rode beside them on his horse, his forehead creased with more wrinkles than usual. Mattie couldn't blame him for being worried. Gunplay was rare and murder even rarer in these parts. The last time anything this serious had occurred was over ten years ago, when her husband had been killed.

“Where is he?” Mattie asked her son.

“I'll show you,” Andy replied.

“No, I want you to stay here. Just tell us where.”

Andy shook his head stubbornly. “I'm going.” He climbed into the back of the wagon and held on to the seat to keep his balance. “Follow the road for a little ways.”

Mattie's gaze collided with Kevin's and she shrugged helplessly. “Let's go.”

A mile down the main road, Andy directed them to a turnoff. A few minutes later, he pointed ahead. “Over there, where Herman is.”

A few hundred yards more and they arrived at the site. Andy jumped down from the wagon before Mattie could stop him. She climbed down and joined Kevin, who knelt beside the wounded man.

Recognition struck her immediately—Mr. Beaudry. She pressed a palm to her mouth.

“It's that gunslinger, Ma,” Andy said.

She nodded faintly. “Clint Beaudry.” The severe lines of his brow had disappeared, smoothed by unconsciousness, and his pale complexion gave his features a marblelike appearance. He no longer appeared dangerous, only … vulnerable.

Mattie shook aside her sympathy. Beaudry was no better than an outlaw.