A Bounty Hunter and the Bride

by Vickie McDonough

  This was his fault. If he’d waited a few more minutes for the marshal instead of plunging ahead on his own, they might have captured Sloane without this woman losing her home or getting hurt.

  As he considered the scene inside the house when he had barged in, he realized a wedding had been in progress. He narrowed his eyes and studied the woman again, not allowing her tears to affect him. Why in the world would she be marrying Ed Sloane? Could the child she bore possibly belong to him?

  Katie couldn’t stop the tears blurring her vision. She laid her throbbing wrist across her stomach, cradled it with her other arm, and stared at her home. Like an angry monster, the fire roared and popped, devouring everything in its path.

  Gone. Everything was gone. Her picture of Jarrod, her wedding ring, the home they’d built out of hard work and sweat. The Hoffman family Bible. Even the chest of baby gowns and blankets she’d hand made. All of it gone.

  Except her life and her child’s life.

  In spite of her gratitude for that, a devastating sense of loss weighed her down. Why had God allowed this to happen?

  Katie sniffed. She didn’t know whether to punch the stranger standing beside her or hug him. If he hadn’t come charging into her house like a mad bull, ruining her wedding, her home wouldn’t be a burning mess now, and she’d be Mrs. Allan King. Her foggy mind couldn’t comprehend how someone as charming as Allan could be wanted by the law.

  The stranger stared at her with an unreadable expression. Though fairly young, he looked rugged and tough. His tanned face sported a day or two of whiskers, but his dark hair and eyes reminded her of Uncle Mason’s and her brother, Jimmy’s. Somehow he’d lost his black western hat and duster, and his hair hung across his collar, too long and unruly to be civilized. She shuddered at his nearness.

  Looking past him, she saw Allan on a horse with his hands cuffed in front of him. A sick feeling threatened to upturn her stomach as she realized her dreams were dying. She glanced at the stranger. Her throat hurt from crying and choking on the smoke, but she had to know. “What did Allan do?” Her voice sounded weak and hoarse.

  Something flickered in the man’s eyes. A muscle in his jaw twitched. “His name’s Ed Sloane, not Allan. He’s a thief and a murderer, ma’am. You should be thankful we arrived before you married him. You would have lost all you had to that scoundrel.”

  Katie shivered. Could what he said possibly be the truth? Was Allan really a murderer? She narrowed her eyes, somehow wanting—needing—to blame this man for all her troubles. “Looks to me like that happened anyway.”

  The man glared back. “Homes can be rebuilt, but people don’t come back from the dead.” He turned and stormed off.

  Katie hiked up her chin. She had never met anyone so rude and insensitive.

  A loud crash pulled her gaze back to the fire. The second story collapsed onto the lower floor. Carter ran back and forth, futilely tossing bucket after bucket of water on the flames.

  What would she do now? How could she get by without a house?

  If not for her child, she might be able to live in the barn’s storeroom for a while, but she had the baby to think of—and Carter lived there. She still had a small pittance in the bank; however, that money would have to go to pay the mortgage, or she’d lose her land.

  Katie used her sleeve to wipe off her damp face. How could such a beautiful morning so full of hope turn into such a tragedy?

  She knew she should be relieved that she had escaped marrying a criminal, but her whole body felt numb as if she were still trapped in the choking smoke.

  The stranger stopped to talk with the marshal. Katie glanced around and realized that Sam and the judge were nowhere to be seen.

  The marshal trudged her way while the stranger held Allan’s horse. He stopped in front of her and removed his hat. “I’m right sorry about your house, Mrs. Hoffman. I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

  Katie wanted to console him, but the words couldn’t quite make it past her throat. She’d never met the marshal, though she’d seen him in town.

  “Anyway, just be glad you didn’t marry that scoundrel. You’d have been sorry, I’m sure.”

  As the marshal trod off, Carter dropped the bucket he been using to douse the fire beside the trough and turned in her direction. With shoulders sagging, he shuffled forward and stopped a few feet in front of her.

  “I’m sorry, Miz Hoff—” His brows dipped. “Uh—it is still Miz Hoffman, isn’t it?”

  Tears burned her eyes, and she nodded.

  “I tried to save the house, ma’am. But it was too far gone after we got your… uh, that fellow corralled. What do you reckon he did?”

  She shrugged and cleared her throat. “That man”—she nudged her head toward the stranger—“said something about Allan being a thief and a murderer.”

  Her voice cracked, and Carter glanced at her with sympathetic gray eyes. “If you don’t mind me saying so, I never liked that feller much. Can’t tell you why, but there was something shifty about him.”

  Katie glanced down at her throbbing, swelling wrist. She didn’t dare move it for fear of feeling that stabbing pain again. “I think deep down I felt that way, too. I was just so desperate that I thought Allan was the answer to my problems.”

  “I reckon he wasn’t.” Carter swiped his arm across his forehead. “You need to see the doctor about that arm.”

  She nodded, dreading the long drive to town. “Could you please hitch the horses?”

  “Sure thang. And I’m real sorry about your house, ma’am.” He ambled toward the barn.

  Katie watched the smoke spiraling up, disturbing a perfectly beautiful autumn sky. How she wished she could just drift away like a cloud, feeling only the warmth of the sun surrounding her instead of this hollowness.

  With her good arm, she wiped the tears from her face. She’d cried enough. She’d never been an overly weepy female and wasn’t going to start today. Staying angry with the stranger would help.

  Right now, she had to make some plans. First was get to town and see the doctor. Then maybe she could stay at the boardinghouse or at the pastor’s home a day or two. Somehow, she had to keep her land. Her child’s inheritance. It was all she had left to give her baby.

  She watched the marshal mount his horse and lead the one carrying Allan away. Funny, Allan was the only thing she didn’t regret losing. She should have listened closer to that inner voice filling her with apprehension. But hadn’t she thought he was God’s answer to her prayers? Somehow, she’d missed hearing God’s voice.

  The stranger walked toward her, carrying the bucket. He ladled water into the dipper and handed it to her. She took it, surprised at his kindness, and drank like a water-starved woman crossing a desert. When she finished, he carried it back to the well, then filled up a canteen he took off his saddle.

  Behind her, horses snorted and a harness jingled. She needed to mentally prepare herself for moving onto the wagon bench. It would hurt—and she couldn’t imagine enduring that pain all over. Though her wrist still throbbed, if she sat still, it was bearable. At least her leg wasn’t broken where the chair had fallen on it.

  The stranger strode toward her again, his hat back on and pulled low on his forehead. She wondered what his story was. He looked more like an outlaw than Allan ever had. The man stopped at the end of the wagon and tied up his black gelding. “What are you doing?” Katie glared at him.

  “I’m fixin’ to drive you into town to see the doctor.” He glowered back, his lips pressed tight in a straight line.

  “Carter can drive me.”

  The man shook his head. “He needs to stay here and make sure the fire doesn’t jump across the dirt and ignite your barn and fields.”

  Katie cast a frantic look toward the barn. She hadn’t thought of that. Her cattle needed the hay stored there to make it through the winter. Glancing back at the remains of the house, she could see how the dried grass had burned right up to the dirt line, which had been made by cows
and horses moving back and forth to the south pasture.

  As much as she didn’t want to admit it, he was right.

  She closed her eyes, took a steadying breath, and scooted off the end of the wagon. Immediately, her whole body seemed ablaze. Instead of supporting her, the injured leg gave way. Letting go of her wounded arm, she threw out her good arm to break her fall, sending jagged pain charging through her wounded hand and wrist. Before she hit the ground, strong arms pulled her back and scooped her up.

  Once again, she rested in the stranger’s arms. Too tired and hurt to complain, she laid her head on his shoulder. Maybe she could rest for just a moment.

  Dusty carried the woman to the wagon bench and helped her get situated. He wished he had some blankets so she could lie down in back or had a pillow that she could rest her broken wrist on.

  He nodded his thanks at the farm hand for hitching up the team. “Keep an eye on those sparks. We don’t want to lose the barn.”

  The man nodded. “I’ll get a shovel and throw some dirt on it.” He strode back into the barn, looking relieved to be able to do something to help.

  The wagon tilted and creaked as Dusty climbed on, and the woman grimaced. He had to admire her spunk. Most women would have fainted dead away after enduring the pain she had when she hopped off the wagon, but she wasn’t even crying.

  He clucked to her horses and heard a soft moan as the wagon jerked forward. An arrow of guilt pushed its way clear to his heart. This was all his fault. Somehow he had to make it right.

  “I… uh, I’ll stay on and rebuild your house for you.”

  The woman gasped and looked at him with wide blue eyes. Her flaxen, smoke-scented hair, probably fixed perfectly before her wedding, now hung in disheveled waves over her shoulders and down to her waist. Would it feel as soft as Emily’s had?

  Clenching his jaw, he looked away. What kind of an idiot was he, comparing her to Emily and telling her he’d rebuild her house?

  “No.”

  Her single-word response forced him to look back. “No, what?”

  She narrowed her eyes, and the nostrils on her cute little nose flared. “I don’t want any more of your help. You’ve done quite enough already.”

  Dusty clenched his jaw and stared straight ahead, knowing she spoke the truth. His all-consuming quest to see Ed Sloane behind bars had caused him to lose control. This woman had paid the price. He darted a glance at her. Marshal Dodge had told him that Sloane had been wooing a widow woman, but in the mayhem, he’d forgotten what the marshal had called her. “What’s your name?”

  She stared straight ahead, cradling her injured arm on the top of her big belly. He sure hoped she didn’t have her little one before they reached town, because he had no idea how to birth a baby.

  “Katie Hoffman.” She heaved a sigh as if giving her name was a big effort.

  “Dusty McIntyre.” He touched the brim of his hat.

  They rode the next half hour in silence, but he kept a close eye on Mrs. Hoffman. She looked done in. “If you need to, I don’t mind if you lean against my shoulder.”

  She peeked sideways at him, her eyes wide. With lips pressed together, she shook her head and looked away.

  Dusty sighed. Who could figure out a female? It had taken a lot to offer his shoulder to her, and she just shrugged off his kindness even though she looked exhausted.

  He stared ahead, watching the flat, barren landscape of western Oklahoma Territory. He longed for the gently rolling hills of his home in Sanders Creek.

  Only he had no home. No job. No family.

  He’d spent the last year and a half chasing after Sloane, and now that he’d caught him, Dusty felt empty.

  Maybe once Sloane was hanged or in prison, he’d feel satisfied.

  Maybe not.

  Maybe he should have left vengeance to God. But he hadn’t been able to. As long as Sloane was free, good, decent people like Katie Hoffman were in danger of being swindled—or worse. He shuddered to think what would have become of her and her property at the hands of Ed Sloane. He seriously doubted she or her child would have lived very long.

  The small town of Claremont came into view on the horizon. As they edged closer, Dusty wondered if such a place would even have a doctor. He glanced at Mrs. Hoffman. Her bobbing head hung down so far it nearly touched her stomach.

  Stubborn woman. She could have rested against him if she weren’t so thickheaded, but then again, her dignity was about all she had left.

  He gently nudged her shoulder, and she glanced up, looking confused. When she moved, pain contorted her pretty face. Her expression cleared as she realized they were in town. “Third house on the right,” she spat.

  He pulled the team to a stop at the house she’d indicated: a small, wood-frame structure that needed a good paint job. He could only hope the doctor was in better shape than his home.

  Dusty lifted Mrs. Hoffman off the wagon and carried her inside, not bothering to knock.

  An hour later, the doctor stepped out from behind a white curtain. “Her wrist is broken, and she has a badly bruised leg and hip, not to mention some minor cuts and bruises. Far as I can tell, the baby is fine. You can take her home, but don’t let her do anything. For the next few days, she’ll feel like she was run down by a herd of cattle. She needs plenty of rest.”

  Dusty blinked. Didn’t the doctor know he wasn’t the woman’s husband?

  The curtain moved, and Mrs. Hoffman hobbled out. He rushed to her side, thinking she shouldn’t be walking.

  “I don’t need your help.” She glared at him, daring him to disagree.

  He stepped back but stayed close in case she needed him. “I’ll stop back by and pay you, Doc,” she said, “after I visit the bank.”

  The doc waved his hand in the air. “No hurry, ma’am. I’m sure you’re good for it.”

  She took another step, wavered, and then collapsed in the chair Dusty had been sitting in. Her chest rose and fell from her exertion. Holding her arm, now wrapped in stark white plaster of Paris, she peeked up at him.

  He knew she didn’t want his help but suspected she had no choice. Not making a big deal of things, he bent over and scooped her up. “Where to now?”

  “The bank.”

  Half an hour later, after they’d been to the bank and paid off the doctor, Dusty sat beside Mrs. Hoffman again on the wagon seat.

  “What now?” He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.

  She pressed her lips together and looked like she was contemplating things. “Were you serious about offering to help me?”

  Dusty nodded, knowing it was the right thing to do.

  “All right then. Take me to the pastor’s house; then tomorrow you can take me home.”

  Dusty turned on the seat to face her. “You can’t go home. There’s no place for you to stay.”

  She looked at him with pain-filled eyes. “I don’t mean the farm. You can take me home to my aunt and uncle’s place near Guthrie.”

  four

  Katie turned sideways on the wagon seat, hoping to ease her aching muscles. Just about the time she’d quit hurting from her fall, she and Mr. McIntyre had left Claremont, and now her body ached for a different reason. Someday, someone had to make a comfortable wagon seat.

  She’d wanted to leave town the day after the fire, but her stubborn escort had refused. There was wisdom in his decision, not that she’d ever acknowledge it. They had waited three days for her to rest up and make arrangements to sell her cattle. At least her land was secure until next April, when she’d need to make another mortgage payment.

  Peeking out the corner of her eye, she studied Dusty McIntyre. He’d been quiet—even distant—rarely talking since they’d left Claremont. But he was always courteous and gentle with her. Who was he, and where had he come from? And who was Allan—no, Ed Sloane—to him?

  Taking a deep breath, she put words to her thoughts. “How did you know Ed Sloane, Mr. McIntyre?” The real name of her almost husband left a bi
tter taste on her tongue.

  He glanced at her with those dark-as-midnight eyes peering out from under the western hat that he kept pulled down over his brows. Was that his way of hiding from the world?

  “Call me Dusty.” A muscle twitched in his shadowed jaw. In a rugged way, he was rather nice-looking. “He was a prisoner in my jail.”

  “Your jail?”

  He nodded. “I used to be the marshal in Sanders Creek.”

  She blinked, trying to process this new information. How did a man go from being a marshal to a bounty hunter?

  “Sloane liked to take advantage of the elderly.” He looked her way, a grim set to his lips. “And widows.”

  Her sudden breath caught in her throat. Widows?

  Not for the first time in the past few days, guilt washed over her for almost marrying a man without knowing his true character and spiritual condition. She’d assumed Allan believed in God since he had willingly gone to church with her, but that must have been his cunning way of winning her over.

  Katie looked down at her hands. She’d ruined everything. If she hadn’t agreed to marry Allan—Ed—she’d still have her home, her belongings, and her self-worth. But now she was returning to her aunt and uncle’s with her tail tucked between her legs.

  Her aunt and uncle would be terribly hurt to learn that she had planned to remarry and hadn’t invited them to the wedding. She’d wanted to prove that she was independent and capable of caring for herself.

  Now she’d have to face them, carrying a baby she hadn’t told them about. Aunt Rebekah had her hands full caring for her four children and her husband. Katie knew if she’d told her about the baby, Rebekah would have found some way to assist her, and Katie hadn’t wanted to add more to her aunt’s already heavy load.

  Katie swallowed the tight lump in her throat. She should have taken her brother, Jimmy, up on his offer and allowed him to help her with the farm. He’d helped her for a month after Jarrod’s death, but she’d turned him loose once he got that wandering look in his eyes. If she had encouraged Jimmy to stay, she never would have put her home up for sale or met Allan.