The Gallows' Bounty (West of Second Chances) (2 page)

“She came in here one day with her face all black and blue,” Kern continued.  “I tried to get her to open up, but she never did.  Like I said, she was real scared of this Brett Roberts.”

“No one brought up the self-defense issue at the trial?”

Kern harrumphed.  “What trial?  French seemed all too happy to send her to the gallows without a judge or a jury.”

“Well, why didn’t you say that before?” Ezra accused, his sense of justice now equally aroused despite his better judgment.

“You kept interruptin’ me,” Kern defended himself.

Ezra grew silent then.  He understood how much power a sheriff held over a prisoner, a man over his wife.  He’d seen both abuse their power.  And French? Well, he had to be one of the worst lawmen Boden had ever encountered.  The man was as tall and thin as prairie grass and as sneaky as a coyote.  He skulked around town at all hours, appearing for all the tumbleweed in the Dakotas to be up to no good.  If he had to guess, Boden reckoned the man caused more trouble than he prevented.

There goes my fishing trip, Boden thought.  He snatched the rifle out of Kern’s hands and bent to scoop up his fallen list.  “Fill my order and tie it to my packhorse.  I have a feeling I’ll want to leave
Devils Lake in a hurry.”

“I knew you’d gotten that reputation of yours for a reason,” Kern said, his face breaking into one of his famous grins.

Boden wished he had no reputation at all.

L
AW WAS A NEW
thing for Devils Lake and religion didn’t exist in the traditional sense.  Man chose his own god here and few chose Him.  Money, lust, and whiskey were the deities of choice. 

Willow Donovan had been unwillingly sacrificed to each.

She swayed slightly, remembering all the ways she’d been used.  Perhaps death wouldn’t be so bad after all.  It offered an escape from a life she no longer wished to live.

“Don’t pass out,” Sheriff French taunted.  “You’ll hang yourself ahead of schedule.”

Willow ignored him, refusing to give French the reaction he desired.  He took too much pleasure in her pain.

A ruckus in the crowd broke out, distracting the sheriff.  The men were shouting at French.  The lawman gave them his full attention.  Striding away from
Willow, his boots clicking and his spurs jangling, he made his way to the edge of the platform.  A railing enclosed the platform and French leaned against it.  His greedy, gray eyes searched the faces of the men below him.

“Sheriff, can’t we mess with her a bit afore you kill her?”

“Yeah, let us have her.  We’ll punish her.”

Willow’s knees began to shake.  Were all men the same, controlled by their lust?  And why did French pay them so much attention?  She could almost see his mind turning over one option and then another, searching for a way to give the men what they wanted.

“What you got to hang her right away for, Sheriff?” one man near the front whined.  He looked as though he hadn’t seen a bath in months.

Another man shouted, his words slurred, his body no cleaner than anyone else’s, “Yeah, we’d be glad to take her off your hands.”

“I’d like to put her in mine,” another man hooted, demonstrating with his hands just what he was thinking.  A wide, lurid smile revealed a dark, gaping hole where his front teeth should have been. Willow could only imagine what his breath smelled like.

“You boys don’t want her to hang?”  French shouted.

His question brought a chorus of “No’s!” It seemed the mob had grown interested in handling her. Toothless seemed especially excited at the prospect of getting his grubby hands on her person.

Sheriff French shot a smug glance over his shoulder at
Willow, a smirk spreading across his thin, sallow face.  She knew then that she’d allowed fear to replace the anger on her face. And she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he’d found a way to punish her that was worse than death.  She dreaded what he might do next more than the hangman’s noose.

Sheriff French fired into the air to gain the mob’s full attention.  “As you all can see, there are many fine fellers here today, and I’d hate to see my town get tore up.” 

French pushed his hat back on his head and placed his hands on the railing, leaning forward. He looked as eager as a ravenous wolf at the prospect of a meal as he plotted Willow’s misery.  She had no desire to be the feast for this starving pack.

“One of you handsome gentlemen is gonna win her in a contest.”  The sheriff paused for effect and to allow the murmurs to make their way through the crowd. “I reckon we can't let a fine figure of a woman like Willow Roberts hang.”

“My name’s
Donovan
, Willow Donovan,” Willow asserted, sick of being taken for Roberts' wife.  Despite her circumstances she still possessed the will to fight, to live.  “I was never married to Brett Roberts.”

“Then that makes you a whore, Willow Donovan.  And a whore like you deserves to die, but I can’t take the fun out of this for the boys.  They’ll be wantin’ you in one piece and lookin’ pretty as a peach.”

Willow’s strength faltered within her.  She knew many of these men and none were any better than her late captor.

“I’d hate to spoil their fun,” she said from behind a cracked façade of bravado.  The words didn’t sound quite as strong as she’d planned.  A knot of anxiety lodged in her throat made it hard to speak.

“I knew you’d be up to the challenge.” A smirk on his thin face, he turned to the crowd and added, “We’re going to have a contest, men.  Some real good entertainment.”

The men shouted again.  Any amusement was welcome in Devils Lake, and if it involved a woman, it was even better.

“Now here are the rules.  Any man who can shoot the rope in two can have the pretty lady.”

Drawing the attention of every last bloodshot eye, the sheriff grabbed the rope above
Willow’s head and yanked it upward.  The noose about her neck tightened and she coughed in an effort to breathe.

“There’s a catch, though, the man who wants a chance at the lady pays one hundred dollars.”

Many fantasies died a sudden death at the sheriff’s steep price tag.  Not only were women scarce in Devils Lake, money was scarce as well.

French stepped down from the platform and guarded the bottom of the stairs with his body.  He stood with his arms crossed and his feet spread wide.  “So, have I got any takers?”

A half dozen eager men scrambled to pay up, and French greedily counted their money and pocketed it.  The cash would never see the town coffers.  That was for sure.

Willow
looked over her potential captors.  The owner of the brothel was paying up as was the barkeep.  Evidently they'd earned a bundle of cash the night before.  Yet the one man she did not know drew her study.  He was tall, taller than any man she’d ever met.  His hands were large and his shoulders broad.  He moved with relaxed authority.

She would never be able to protect herself from a man like him.  Their eyes locked.  She shivered. He was power barely leashed.  He could kill her without effort, and he might get the chance, for he was paying the hundred dollars.

EZRA BODEN NEARLY LAUGHED
when the woman spit in the sheriff’s face, but his mirth quickly fled when the sheriff raised his hand.  By God, if he struck her, he’d lift Kern’s rifle now and end the whole thing.  But the sheriff didn’t strike her; he only wiped the spit from his face and spoke a few more words to her.

Boden couldn’t hear what was said, but he could see her face grow even paler, her back even stiffer.

She had every reason to look terrified.  Truth be told, she was being auctioned.  And she had no idea the sheriff had just made things easier for Boden.  He knew he could shoot that rope in two.  And it’d be a lot easier to win her than to take off with her.

Boden kept his gaze downcast as he paid French.  He breathed a sigh of relief when the man only counted his money and waved him away.  The beard might have been a smart move after all.  He stooped slightly beneath his slicker, knowing his height could betray him as well as his face.

When he raised his head, his eyes locked with the prisoner’s.  He knew then that he’d made the right decision to help her.  He’d spent a life separated from others and he’d liked it that way, but this woman offered him no choice.  He saw in her eyes the same look he’d seen in another pair of eyes long ago—despair.

Boden hoped he didn’t miss that rope.

Then again, he never missed.

“BETTER HOPE THEY AIM
high, Mrs. Roberts,” French leered from below her.  “I’d hate to see someone hit you on accident.”

With that, he walked the contestants fifty paces from the cottonwood.  Wind tugged at their clothing as they leaned into it.  The rope swayed, further scratching the soft skin of
Willow’s neck. Her rain-soaked skirts clung to her body.

Fear gripped
Willow with a fierce hand.  Her legs shook.  She would either die or be handed over to yet another stranger before long.  Neither were good options.

Willow
studied the contestants.  The big man held the last place in line. Something about the way he carried himself told her he possessed the skill to win her.  Perhaps it was the confident way he stood among the other men or the simple fact that he wasn’t drunk.  One thing was for sure, if he won, it would be impossible to escape him.  At least she knew what to expect from these other men.  If one of them won the contest, she’d face a devil she knew. She hoped the tall man never got a crack at that rope.

The first shooter almost granted her wish when his bullet whizzed past her ear.  The second shooter struck the rope a foot above her head, but only nicked it.  The next shooters were little better than the first, yet she still lived by the time the fifth shooter staggered a few steps forward and aimed his piece.  He fought to steady his shaking arm as he pointed his firearm in her direction.

Here it comes
, Willow thought, noting the wavering aim.  He appeared drunker than the skies, and from what she could tell, his gun was leveled straight at her. Willow couldn’t close her eyes, even though she desperately wanted to.  Instead, she stared helplessly down the barrel of the rifle as the drunken man squeezed the trigger.

She nearly breathed a sigh of relief when the bullet swung wide; however, it swung so wide that it struck the lever, the same lever that would release the trapdoor beneath her feet.  While she hadn’t been shot, the force of the bullet imbedding in the handle propelled it backward.  The trapdoor fell from under her feet, the rope ratcheted up her neck, slammed against her chin and tightened.

Willow Donovan cringed, waiting for the rope to snap her neck.  The pressure increased, everything slowed, then another gun sounded.

The world grew dark.

T
HE FIFTH CONTESTANT SWAYED
unsteadily in front of him, and Boden fought the urge to shoot the drunken idiot in the back of his balding head.  Temptation resisted, Boden stepped to the right.  He lifted his rifle and aimed at the weak spot the second shooter had created in the rope.   He fired, the sound of his shot echoing in his ears.

The rope stretched tight just as his bullet cut through it.  The crowd cheered.  The sheriff cursed.  Ezra headed toward the woman lying on the ground beneath the gallows.  Had his shot come too late?

Just then the idiot who’d shot before him stepped into Boden’s path. “What do you think you’re doin’, mister?  She’s mine.”

He ignored the inebriated man and took a long stride past him.  The sound of a hammer cocking back caught his attention.  In one swift movement, he drew his Colt and jabbed it in the other man’s chest.  “Who’d you say she belonged to?”

“Um…that’d be you,” the man said, his Adam’s apple bobbing.  He lifted the pistol he held above his head in a show of surrender.

“That’s what I thought you said,” Boden said.  After that, a path to the gallows cleared.  Men who’d thought to offer resistance scurried out of his way like rats in a dank hole.

Once he reached the woman's side, he removed the tightened noose from around her neck.  The rope had ripped at the sensitive flesh, leaving it red, but her neck hadn't snapped.  She breathed the breath of the living.  He placed an arm behind her shoulders and sat her up.  He dipped a shoulder and braced her against it, freeing both of his hands to untie her ropes.

When he finished, he lifted her into his arms.  She weighed next to nothing, and Boden tucked her tighter in his embrace.  The men around him eyed her like boys eyed rock candy at Kern's Mercantile.  He wouldn't be surprised to see a few of them lick their lips in anticipation.

He risked a glance down at the bundle in his arms.  Noting her bruises, anger stirred within him.  How could someone mistreat her?  He lifted his gaze and scanned the crowd gathered around them, injecting his look with all the anger he felt.

The woman’s head lolled slightly on his shoulder, and Boden looked down again to see if she stirred. The skin beneath her eyes was dark, no doubt a result of a few sleepless nights.  Dark, damp lashes rested against the pallor of her skin and her lips parted slightly.  Her pert little nose fit her face perfectly.  His gaze perused past the bruises on her neck to the dangerously low cut of her dress.  The design and the dampness of the fabric left little to the imagination.  Goosebumps rose on the swell of her breasts.  Desire blind-sided him. She wasn't awakening, but he was.  She stirred feelings within him that he'd long ago buried.

A frown molding his lips, his jaw a hard line, Boden drew his eyes from her body to the crowd of men intently watching them.  The desire he felt for this woman was mirrored in their stares. He grew angry with himself. If one thing was for sure, she didn’t need his lust. What made him any different than the vultures hovering nearby?

He forced the stiffness out of his shoulders, the hardness out of his jaw.  He was not anything like these men. He was his own man.

And he knew one thing for sure–even if he desired this woman, he’d protect her whatever the cost.  Even if that meant protecting her from himself.

THE BLACKNESS RECEDED AND
the light broke through.  Willow shivered and lifted a hand to her throat.  It was sore, but she lived.  Was that good or bad?  She feared it was the latter.

As her sense of awareness strengthened, she realized the tall, bearded man was carrying her through the crowd.

He had won her!

“Oh, God, no,” she rasped, fighting his hold on her.

He held her tighter.  “Hold still.”

Hold still?  In his strong, threatening arms?  Not on her life.  She wriggled and twisted and struck at him. 

“Now stop that,” the man who held her ordered.  His voice belied neither anger nor annoyance.  It was emotionless.

“Then let me down,” she countered.

“It’s best if I carry you,” he returned evenly.

Yeah, she just bet he liked holding her.  Men would do anything to get a feel.  She hit him hard in the jaw.

“Well, if you insist, ma’am.”

She expected him to drop her, but instead, he set her gently on her feet.  He didn’t release his hold on her, though.  He began to tug her through the crowd.  Didn’t he understand she had no intention of going anywhere with him?  She dug her heels in.

He merely turned to look at her with cool brown eyes before continuing on his way.  She supposed he scowled at her beneath those whiskers, but their density left her with some doubts.  She continued her efforts to free her hand.  She clawed, she bit, she kicked–he continued to ignore her.  A gnat buzzing at his ear would have gained more notice.

Roberts would have beaten her into submission by now.

She didn’t get the chance to contemplate the tall man much longer.  A pair of arms circled her waist from behind and tugged her from the tall man’s iron grip.  She nearly shouted a warning, but thought better of it.  This man was helping her escape.

Another man struck her new captor across the small of the back with a large board, the action forcing him to let loose of her.  Willow turned her attention to the new set of arms pulling her against a smelly, aroused body.  She turned in the man’s grasping embrace and recognized him instantly.  Bart Smith, the brothel owner.  He was a potbellied man who smelled of rotting flesh.  Hope flared in
Willow.  She’d managed to escape the man’s eager arms before, and she would do so again today.

“Hello.” Smith smiled, revealing rotting teeth.  “I like this position much better.”

She didn’t, so she kneed him hard in the groin.  He released her, but several grappling hands waylaid her escape.  She picked up a board of her own and held it in front of her, knowing she’d most likely lose the battle.

Well, she’d go down fighting.  Like it or not, she still hadn’t given up.

“You’re goin’ to pay for that, Willow,” Smith said. 

He’d regained his equilibrium faster than she would have thought.  He lunged for her and
Willow swung hard with her new weapon.  She couldn’t help a flare of satisfaction when the man flopped face first in the mud.

The moment of satisfaction died a quick death.  A man burst from the crowd and launched himself at her.  She raised the board she held, but didn’t have enough time to finish the blow before he propelled her down into the mud. Her arms flailed over her head and the board flew from her grasp.

She looked up into the face of a man she did not know, and he grinned at her.  His anxious hand reached between them and fumbled with her skirts.  She brought her fist up and threw it into his jaw.  A stinging pain radiated through her hand, but she continued her assault.

Victory felt near when he withdrew his hands from her skirts only to perish when they reappeared holding a knife.

“I know how to use this knife, and I’m mighty willing to use it if you hit me again,” he said.  He put it to her throat and applied dangerous pressure to emphasize his words.  True panic seized Willow when his free hand worked between them to undo his belt buckle.

She'd been wrong to prefer this crowd to the tall man.  He had at least kept his hands to himself.  She scanned the throng for him as she fought her attacker.  It didn't take her long to spy the man; he was fighting off his own share of the mob.  Even in their midst, he stood taller than all.

“Looks like you’re mine,” her attacker said, jerking her attention back to him.  And she just might be, considering the tall man, her only hope at this point, was otherwise engaged.

Her attacker settled his weight on her, crushing her into the mud.  Rain spattered against her face, and she heard the others begging the man not to kill her so they could have their turn.  She fought even with the knife at her throat, bucking and twisting.  The knife sliced into her skin.

“Hold still, woman!” her attacker commanded.

“You’re going to have to kill me,” she challenged.  And she meant it, even though she could feel the blade move against her throat with her words.

“If that’s the way it has to be,” the man replied.  He made to draw the knife across her throat with enough force to kill her.

But that was as far as he got.  From behind the man, a pistol shot rang out followed by a spattering of red on her attacker’s shirtfront.

Willow screamed.

The dead man began to fall on top of her, but she managed to roll her numb body from beneath him.  The man’s face pitched with finality into the mud.

When she sat up,
he
strode toward her. The men let him pass by easily now. His intense eyes met hers; the crowd became decidedly quiet and backed away.  He looked a mess, muddy and bloody, but his stance above her spoke of ownership.  He let the vultures know that she was his.  He dropped the board he’d used, and she waited for what he would do next.

He extended his hand to her.

She didn’t take it.  He would certainly haul her up only to knock her back into the mud. 

He spoke.  “You can come with me or you can stay here and face these men alone.  It’s up to you.”

The men who’d retreated once he’d returned to her side took tentative steps forward.

They were many.

He was one.

She took his hand.

When she stood once more, he leaned close and questioned softly in her ear, “Are you all right?”

His close proximity, the feel of his warm breath in her ear set off none of the usual warning signs.  The back of her neck didn’t tingle, her stomach didn’t sour.  Rather, his question and demeanor gave her the strange notion that he was concerned.

She had to be misunderstanding things. She lifted her head and met his eyes.  His eyes were not made of granite.  No, his were sturdy, brown eyes locked inside a stern expression.

Most importantly, they weren’t glazed with lust.

She nodded in response to his earlier question, even though she wasn’t all right. She feared she had finally lost her mind, for she thought she actually saw compassion in his eyes.

And that just couldn’t be.

Men didn’t feel compassion.

EZRA BODEN HADN'T EXPECTED
to look the woman in the eye and be unable to look away.  He’d wanted to see for himself that she was fine, to see if he’d imagined the look he’d seen in her eyes earlier.  He wished he had.

He hadn’t.

He knew this woman’s story as if she’d told it to him.  She’d been misused, beaten, and pushed around for far too long.  Men labeled her a whore and women shunned her, but her only real sin was having no one to protect her, to shield her.

His gut clenched.  Damn, he’d have to find something for lunch soon.  Anyway, he thought it was hunger that bothered him.  But this feeling differed slightly from the one he experienced when hungry.  Matter of fact, he hadn’t felt like this for eleven years; he’d sworn he’d never feel this way again.

He tucked her close to his body.  Confident she rested safe in his grasp, he returned his attention to those around them.  No one stood waiting to challenge him.  No one else wanted to die for a quick tussle in the mud.

Well, none save French.

“What do you think you’re doin’ shootin’ up my town? You should have let those men have Willow Roberts.  She’s nothin’ better than a whore,” the sheriff said.

The woman named
Willow stiffened at his side, and Boden contemplated shooting the sheriff where he stood.  Heck, he'd be doing the town a favor.

Instead, Boden ignored French and continued guiding
Willow to the boardwalk.  Even though he figured he’d regret not killing the man, Boden had already taken one life; he didn't want to take any more.  Not to mention, the woman stood shivering at his side.

Devils
Lake’s unpopular preacher, Zechariah Martin, met them on the boardwalk and held his ground in front of the undertaker's shop.  The door to the place stood open.  The dim lighting revealed a pine coffin resting atop a table.  Boden surmised it had been readied for Mrs. Roberts.  Thankfully, the warm bundle he held close to his side wouldn’t be a cold mass in the pine coffin.

“I guess I won’t be saying any final words for Mrs. Roberts today,” the preacher said to French as he came to stand near the man.

“Nope, you'll be officiating a wedding instead,” Boden answered, continuing to survey his surroundings.  He relaxed somewhat with the storefronts at his back, but relinquishing his guard even now could be costly. His eyes scanned the dispersing crowd for trouble.

“What?” she and French asked at once.

Willow had managed to hold still at Boden's side since his rescue of her, but now she attempted to pull away.  He wished she wouldn’t try to escape him again.  Hadn’t the woman learned her lesson?  He held her tighter.

Boden hadn’t planned on marrying the woman when he’d set about rescuing her.  No, that hadn’t been the plan at all.  Yet when he’d met her eyes that second time, he’d seen no other path.  She deserved a man’s protection, his name, and he happened to have both to give. Despite the spontaneity of his decision, he knew he was doing the right thing.