by Amy Sandas
As she slipped from the grand Boston mansion into the fresh night air, Alexandra breathed deep and wide. Catching sight of Courtney’s family carriage, she glanced around to make sure no one else was about, then she lifted the skirts of her ball gown in both hands and sprinted off into the darkness.
Montana was waiting.
Two
Boulder, Colorado Territory
August 4, 1881
Malcolm Kincaid would’ve given anything to send his fist flying into the face of the wastrel seated across from him. He didn’t, because the grimy outlaw claimed to have information Malcolm needed.
But damn, he wanted to.
Freddie Golding had spent his life stealing from widows and orphans and every sort of poor soul in between. The criminal went by a thousand different names, which was how he’d managed to evade the law for so long, even though he was wanted in five counties through three different territories. That and the fact that he was so common in appearance as to be totally forgettable.
The outlaw was going by a new name in Boulder and had no idea Malcolm knew exactly who he was. The world would be a better place without him, but right now Freddie had something Malcolm wanted more than the bounty on his head.
They sat at a table in the back corner of John J’s Saloon. It was late on a Saturday night, and the place was hopping with men who’d come in to let loose with a night of drinking, gambling, and whoring.
By the shake in Freddie’s hand as he reached for his glass, his red, bulbous nose and bloodshot eyes, it was clear he was not a man who went long without his whiskey.
“You said you had information for me,” Malcolm said tersely. “Get to it or I’m leaving.”
Freddie leaned forward, his greasy hair falling around his face as he smiled wide enough to show three missing teeth. “Oh, I’ve got what you want, mister. But you’re not gettin’ it for free.”
Malcolm narrowed his gaze. His hand itched to curl into a fist.
“I heard you been asking for this little tidbit for years,” Freddie said smugly. “Somethin’ like that’s gotta be worth quite a bit.”
“Tell me what you know, and I’ll decide what it’s worth.”
The greedy man downed the last of his whiskey, then flicked his rheumy gaze over Malcolm’s untouched glass. Noting the longing in Freddie’s expression, Malcolm lifted his whiskey. He stared hard over the rim of the glass until Freddie met his gaze.
“Tell me where he is.”
There was a flash of uncertainty in the outlaw’s dark, beady eyes as he licked his thin lips. “Maybe another drink’ll help me remember the details.”
Malcolm set his drink down hard, causing liquor to slosh from the glass. All pretense was gone from his manner as he replied in a biting tone, “Maybe I’ll haul you back to Amarillo or Silver City and see what they think a fair price for the information might be. Or maybe I’ll just take you straight down to Pueblo. I heard the judge in that town is itching to have you back.”
Freddie’s eyes grew wide as his gaze darted about the saloon, as though he expected a cavalry to emerge from the dusky shadows to drag him to justice. “I don’t know what—”
“Shut up, Freddie. The only thing I wanna hear out of your mouth is what I came here looking for.”
Freddie turned his wary focus back to Malcolm as he leaned in across the table. “You gonna take me in?”
“Not if you spill what you know.”
After another quick glance around the room, he said, “You lookin’ for the Belt Buckle Kid, right?”
Malcolm nodded. It wasn’t a secret. He’d been hunting the elusive outlaw for years and had gotten close to capturing him more than once in the beginning. But then the Kid stopped using his idiotic nickname. No one knew him by anything else so he’d basically disappeared. It had been years since Malcolm had gotten any solid information on the wanted man.
Freddie hesitated one final time before letting his breath out in a gust. If he made a run for it, Malcolm would have him pinned to the ground and howling in an instant. They both knew who held the power here. “His real name’s Walter Dunstan. His daddy’s got a spread outside of Wolf Creek up there in Montana.”
The tightness that bound Malcolm’s chest shifted just enough to allow one full breath before it squeezed tight again.
Walter Dunstan of Wolf Creek, Montana.
It was strange. The elusive murderer had been known only as the Belt Buckle Kid for so long that the new name didn’t seem to fit. Walter Dunstan sounded like some graying old man, not a cold-blooded killer who couldn’t be much more than thirty years old.
None of it changed the fact that Walter Dunstan had a death to answer for.
“How do I know what you’re telling me is the truth?” he asked.
Freddie shrugged. “You don’t. But I can tell you that I used to work for his pa years ago. I was even with Walter when he beat that boy with his belt and first gained the stupid nickname.”
It could be true. And if it was, that meant Malcolm was finally getting close to seeing his vow of vengeance fulfilled.
“If you go after him, you’re likely to be the one who ends up with a bullet in the gut,” Freddie warned. “His pa’s real powerful.”
Malcolm shrugged. As long as he took the Belt Buckle Kid out first, it didn’t much matter what happened to him. And now that he had what he needed, he no longer had any use for Freddie. “Get the hell outta here before I change my mind about taking you in.”
As Freddie stumbled from the saloon, Malcolm acknowledged that he probably should have collected the bounty on the man anyway. Freddie was a menace. Just being in his vicinity put a bad taste in Malcolm’s mouth. The information was enough of a boon, however, that Malcolm was willing to give the slimy weasel a head start.
He lifted the whiskey and drained the glass in one swallow as he considered what he’d learned.
He didn’t trust Freddie any farther than he could spit. But if what the man said was true, after all these years, Walter Dunstan was as good as dead. He just didn’t know it yet.
Three
Rock Springs, Wyoming Territory
August 12, 1881
Alexandra Brighton came to a swift halt four steps into the Painted Horse Saloon. Blinking a few times to adjust to the dim interior, she took a measured look around.
As saloons went, it was nothing special. Not that Alexandra had seen many—or any, to be honest.
Despite the early hour, the place was busier than expected. Three men stood in hushed conversation as they leaned against the bar running the length of the wall to her left. Several tables filled the open area to the right, where two separate card games were in progress, and narrow stairs toward the back led up to a closed second floor. An upright piano that looked like it hadn’t been touched in years stood lonely in the shadows by the stairs.
Upon her entrance, everyone turned to stare at her, yet only a handful of the men bothered to scrape to their feet. Their expressions, ranging from mildly curious to outright covetous, reminded her of what she already knew: a saloon was no place for a lady.
Alexandra steadied her chin as she stared coolly back. She did not have the luxury of fear. That would have been handy before she had left Boston. But now, she was too far from the place she’d called home the last five years to go back.
Her only option was to go forward.
Preferably as quickly as possible.
All she needed was one good man. One noble, honorable man who could escort her to Montana while keeping her free from harm. Was that too much to ask?
She feared it was, but Alexandra was low on options. And funds.
The stagecoach out of Rock Springs, Wyoming, was inoperable due to required repairs, leaving Alexandra in desperate need of another way to get to Helena. When the blacksmith mentioned a bounty hunter in town who was heading in that
direction, she didn’t stop to think about it—just headed off to the saloon where the man was said to be catching some respite.
It had been a long time since her reckless will had landed her in trouble, yet here she was, standing in the middle of a filthy saloon while men of all varieties stared at her in a way that made her feel like a sheep who’d wandered into the midst of a wolf pack.
Stiffening her spine and reminding herself of her purpose, she scanned the room again.
One of these men had to be the bounty hunter.
The longer she stood there, the cruder the gazes became. The nerves running along her spine prickled, and her palms started to sweat in her fine gloves. Time to see her business done so she could get herself out of there.
“Which of you is the man called Kincaid?” she asked in a tone that cut uncomfortably through the humming quiet that had taken over the place.
She hadn’t intended to sound so imperious, but her courage was slowly ebbing away, and her voice tended to sharpen in compensation for a lack of confidence.
More than a few men glanced away, refocusing their attention on their drink or their card game or whatever conversation they had been in before her interruption. Others eyed her with a new level of curiosity or an odd dose of wariness.
No one answered.
She opened her mouth to repeat her question when the bartender, an aging man with a bald head and rotund belly, caught her eye and gave a sharp jerk of his chin toward a man standing in the shadows at the far end of the bar.
Bolstering her nerves, Alexandra started forward with long strides that caused her many-layered skirts to snap against her heeled boots. The stranger appeared as rough as the other men in the place, but there was something about him—something in the way he held himself—that struck her acutely even as common sense urged her to be extra wary.
Though he hunched forward to rest his elbows on the bar, there was no mistaking his height, or that his shoulders were broad and strong beneath his dark duster coat. A good layer of dirt covered everything from his scuffed boots to the bandana around his neck and the wide-brimmed hat tipped low over his face, supporting the fact that he’d just ridden into town.
It was more than his intimidating size and trail-worn appearance that set this man apart, however. Despite his relaxed posture, he seemed ready for action. And if that were not enough, he was the only person in the whole place who had not given her a second glance. He appeared intent on ignoring her and everyone else.
And everyone else seemed equally determined to ignore him.
If she were a sheep, and the saloon’s occupants were a pack of wolves, then this man was the alpha.
Her steps faltered. What kind of stupid sheep walked right up to the alpha wolf?
Apparently, this one did.
The flash of caution had come far too late. Though she came to an abrupt stop, she was already too close to pretend that she had intended to speak with anyone else. Of course, there had also been the haughty way she’d loudly stated his name for all to hear.
Blast.
Maybe he wasn’t Kincaid after all. Maybe the bartender just had a cramp in his neck he was trying to stretch out.
But she couldn’t turn back now. Taking another step closer, she said in what she hoped was a confident and civil tone, “Mr. Kincaid?”
The man remained as he was, his gaze trained forward. His lack of response was unnerving.
Alexandra kept her gaze fixed on his profile, though she had to tip her chin up to manage it. Unfortunately, the wide brim of his hat threw most of his face into shadow. All she could discern was a jawline covered with the scruff of a dark beard and the long line of his nose. His hair, a few shades lighter than his beard, was as dusty as the rest of him, falling over the collar of his coat to brush against his shoulders. The man was in desperate need of a bath.
He didn’t turn his head to look at her or move his hand from where it curved around a small glass of whiskey, but Alexandra got the sense all the same that her approach bothered him.
No, it irritated the hell out of him.
She almost turned away, but her frustration and impatience had been building, along with her trepidation, and kept her feet rooted to the floor, even though it was increasingly clear that Kincaid was not the noble escort she had hoped to find.
He was dangerous. A man not to be trifled with.
Before she could turn away, someone shouted from behind her, “If you don’t want her, I’ll take her.”
The slurred words inspired some muffled laughter throughout the saloon. Alexandra stiffened. Before she could find her voice to form any kind of response, Kincaid turned his head. Sharp gray eyes pierced from the shadows of his hat, directed past Alexandra to the man who had spoken.
She had never seen such hardness in a man’s gaze, and it momentarily distracted her from her precarious situation. There was no emotion there. It was all steel and granite. Her lungs stopped drawing breath. Her stomach twisted.
And he wasn’t even directing that steely gaze toward her.
She didn’t need to turn around to know that he’d gotten the attention of everyone in the place. The outspoken drunkard mumbled some incoherent apology under his breath before Kincaid swept that harsh glare over the rest of the saloon, which had fallen silent for the second time since she had entered.
Then, apparently satisfied, Kincaid shifted his attention back toward the mirror behind the bar as he lifted his glass for a drink.
Alexandra didn’t move. Not even to breathe.
Maybe he was the man she needed after all. If he could silence a saloon with nothing more than a hard stare, surely he could get her safely to her father’s place in Montana.
Gathering her courage once again, she asked, “Are you Kincaid?”
No response.
She waited a full minute…and nothing.
With a smothered sound of annoyance, she turned toward the bar. The moment her gaze found the mirror on the wall across from her, she was ensnared by the bounty hunter’s sharp gray focus.
He was staring at her in the grimy reflection and had probably been doing so from the moment she’d approached.
An intrinsic sort of physical awareness lifted the hair on the back of her neck. It was a sensation not quite like fear, though it was awfully close to it.
For a few moments, she couldn’t manage anything more than to stare back at him. His features were a fascinating collection of harsh angles and rough-hewn lines. The thick beard did nothing to disguise his hard, masculine jaw, or detract from the impression of his straight nose and those frightening eyes.
Still staring at her.
A strange sort of weakness infused her insides, making her belly quiver and her knees turn to jelly. That sensation spurred her to speak again. She hated feeling weak nearly as much as she hated being afraid.
“My name is Alexandra Brighton, and I find myself in need of an escort to Montana.”
“No.”
She’d barely finished before he gave his reply. One curt word uttered in a low tone that left no room for civility.
Alexandra frowned. Her fingers curled into fists in her soft, pearl-gray gloves. “I know you are heading in that direction. The blacksmith said as much. It is imperative that I make my way north as soon as possible.”
“Not my problem, lady.”
His rudeness set her back, but not enough to give up. “That is correct; it’s not your problem,” Alexandra replied. She heard the annoyance in her voice and swiftly softened her tone. “You can be the solution, however.”
“No.”
Her temper flared. The man was infuriating. “Why not?” she pressed stubbornly.
He lifted his glass to drain the last of the whiskey. His Adam’s apple rose and fell above the edge of his bandana. Setting the glass back on the bar, he muttered, “You got
the wrong man.”
“You are Kincaid.”
He clenched his teeth, hardening the already harsh line of his jaw. “I’m no guide, and I’m damned sure no lady’s escort.”
Oddly, the more discourteous and aggressive he became, the more he made her want to dig in her heels and force him to be reasonable. “You are a bounty hunter, correct?”
No reply.
“You hunt down outlaws for a reward. I imagine it has taken you all over this country of ours. You are likely quite familiar with any number of roads and trails that stretch across the western territories.”
No reply.
Alexandra sighed. “Look, Mr. Kincaid,” she began, doing her best to formulate her thoughts into a convincing argument, “I understand I may not be offering you the type of work you typically accept, but you will be paid. Quite handsomely, actually.”
She didn’t bother to add that she wouldn’t be able to give him his fee until they reached her father.
“No.”
“But—”
“No.”
He didn’t raise his voice or say anything more. Just the one syllable. Then he shifted his gaze toward the bartender with a dip of his chin to indicate he wanted another pour, dismissing her.
He wasn’t going to help.
An overwhelming dread and some other emotion filled her, tightening her chest and turning her legs to lead. What on earth would she do now?
“Excuse me, miss?”
Alexandra was so deep in her own head, she nearly jumped at the words, even though they were spoken in an even tone barely over a whisper. She hadn’t even noticed someone stepping up behind her.
She turned in place to see a man aged somewhere in his forties, dressed in a pale-gray suit and neat bowler hat. He looked decidedly out of place in his Eastern clothing and impeccably clean appearance. Even she had a thin layer of dust coating her boots and the hem of her many skirts, but not this man, who stood at least two inches shorter than her.
