An Unconventional Bride For The Rancher (Historical Western Romance)

by Cassidy Hanton

  More than an hour passed with nothing at all happening. Tyler yawned, rubbed his shoulder where it still ached and realized the boys might not show up until dawn. “It’ll be a long night if that happens.”

  He jerked into full alertness at the quiet hoot of an owl. Taking his rifle and the revolver from the drawer, he jacked a shell into the chamber of the rifle. Ducking under the desk, where there was just room enough for him to crouch, his head down, he listened intently.

  For a long while, he heard nothing at all. He began to think he hadn’t heard Harold at all, but a real hunting owl passing nearby. Then he stiffened. The door creaked open with a faint scream. He heard tense breathing, as though the person was in mortal fear. Then soft steps entered the sheriff’s office.

  “Where is he?”

  The voice was quiet, a boy’s voice. And one that trembled clearly. He thought he recognized the voice as Ian’s. Tyler tensed, himself, waiting for them to walk past him to the cells beyond the far door. Are there two of them or three? From the sounds of the footsteps, he couldn’t be certain of how many were there.

  “Maybe in the outhouse,” said another voice.

  This one was deeper, more masculine, an adult. Tyler didn’t think it belonged to Johnson, however, and suspected it to be the older boy, Kevin’s.

  “Maybe he’s sleeping in one of the cells,” the voice added. “He must be around someplace, the keys are here.”

  “Then let’s get Dennis before he comes back.”

  “If he’s back there, we’ll have to kill him.”

  Tyler listened to a faint whine, the cry of a frightened boy. “We can’t kill him, he’s a deputy. We’ll hang.”

  “You can’t hang what you can’t catch. Now quit your whining, Ian.”

  Listening to the faint steps pass the desk and walk to the back of the office, Tyler heard that door open. Bracing himself, he waited for the jangle of keys on the cell door.

  “Dennis,” Kevin called out softly. “Wake up.”

  “He ain’t waking up,” Ian said, his voice still high pitched, near tears. “Did they do something to him?”

  “Naw. He’s just a hard sleeper.”

  The keys jangled in the cell lock. Tyler crept out from under the desk, stepping lightly yet quickly toward the jail portion of the office. Peeking through the crack between the door and the jamb, he saw both boys with their backs to him as they fumbled to find the right key to the cell. Hiding behind the door, he listened intently as the hinges on the cell screeched as it opened.

  “Dennis,” said the tall boy, “wake up.”

  Just as Kevin Miller stepped inside to bend over the dummy on the cot, Tyler lunged. Shoving Ian hard, he slammed the younger boy into the older, sending them both into a tangle on the cot. Grabbing hold of the cell door, he swung it shut with a clang and grabbed the keys from the lock.

  Roaring, Kevin staggered up, his rifle in his hand, throwing Ian to the floor. He didn’t bother to aim it but fired at Tyler straight from his hip. Luckily, his shot hit the wall inches to Tyler’s right, but he was correcting his aim. Moving faster than he ever had in his life, Tyler bolted through the door, keys and rifle in his hands, and threw himself to the floor, rolling. He lost his grip on his gun.

  Kevin’s rifle shot blasted through the wall and the oak cabinet both, sending shards of wood in all directions. Still down, Tyler covered his head as the boy in the cell continued to shoot, yelling and screaming for all he was worth. Wood continued to rain down on his body, but the shots went well overhead, at man height.

  At last, the rifle emptied, but Tyler had no illusions that the kid didn’t have extra ammunition. The boy continued to yell, Ian screaming and crying, and Tyler started to get up, to scramble out through the front door as Kevin reloaded. He got as far as his knees when a solid kick to his ribs flattened him again, taking his breath.

  Rolling onto his back, gasping and coughing, a searing pain coursing through his torso, Tyler stared up into the barrel of a gun. Harvey Johnson’s leering face stood behind it. He froze. Johnson pulled the hammer back on the revolver. Tyler knew that in an instant, he would be dead.

  Johnson took a moment to sneer. “Injun lover.”

  Tyler twisted to the side a fraction before Johnson pulled the trigger.

  The gun went off. Wood splinters from the floor burst into Tyler’s eyes. He didn’t wait for Johnson to correct his aim and try again. Lashing out with his legs, he struck Johnson across the ankles, knocking him to the floor.

  Pouncing like a cat onto its prey, Tyler scrambled to his hands and knees, then landed on Johnson. Having fallen onto his back, Johnson snarled silently, his face twisted with hate as Tyler went for his gun hand. He was a fraction too late. Johnson swung his revolver and cracked Tyler across his left eye, sending him reeling backward.

  Falling, blinded by pain and blood, Tyler heard men shouting and the thudding of feet on the roof. Holding his hand to his eye, he tried to get to his feet but only succeeded in rising to his knees. Johnson also heard the shouts, the sounds of running feet, and got up faster than Tyler. Not bothering to take aim and shoot Tyler while Tyler knelt helplessly, he instead ran, staggering out the door to vanish from Tyler’s sight.

  Stumbling and holding the heel of his hand to his bleeding eye, Tyler heard the sound of hoofbeats, a gunshot and a few more yells. Trying to find his rifle while half blind, Tyler jerked in shock at the feel of hands on his body.

  “You better sit down before you fall down,” Charlene said.

  Gawking, Tyler removed his hand to stare down at her, her arm around his waist as she tried to guide him to the chair. His vision had doubled, and he saw two of her. Yells and cries still shrieked from the jail cell behind them, offering him more confusion. “What?” he began. “How?”

  “Don’t try to talk yet,” she ordered, plucking a laced handkerchief from her dress pocket and pressing it to his bleeding head.

  At that moment, Harold rushed in the door to skid to a shocking halt. “What?” he began.

  Josiah ran inside, and within moments, the small office was filled with the men Tyler had assisting him. Worried that Kevin might begin shooting through the wall again, Tyler hustled them, and Charlene, out the door and into the dark street. He still held her cloth to his brow, waving his hand back at the jail.

  “Can’t risk him hitting y’all if he starts to shoot again,” Tyler said, wishing he could sink to the muddy road and lie down.

  “What in damnation are you doing here, girl?” Harold demanded, staring hard at Charlene.

  “I had to see what was going on,” Charlene replied, not at all intimidated. “I was worried.”

  Tyler gaped, his jaw slack. “What?”

  “I know you told me not to,” she went on, plucking the kerchief from his brow to examine his latest wound. “I wanted to protect you if I could, but it seems that wasn’t necessary.”

  Tyler walked on stiff legs to peer into the open door of the office, trying to figure out where she came from. “How did you get in there?” he asked.

  “Yes, young lady.” Harold crossed his arms over his chest, glowering at Charlene. “How did you get here?”

  “I walked, silly men.” She gazed around at the circle of armed men staring at her, unperturbed. “After Tyler headed here, I followed him, then came in the back door and hid in the closet when he wasn’t looking. I heard Johnson’s voice and felt torn between staying or running out to help you.” Charlene glanced away. “I’m sorry I didn’t.”

  “You did right to stay in there,” Tyler replied softly. “He could have gunned you down easily.

  “We never saw him come in,” Harold admitted, now abashed. “I confess that once the Miller boys went inside, I quit watching, thinking Johnson stayed behind. I never thought anyone else would follow.”

  Another man raised his hand. “I apologize, Deputy. He got by me, somehow.”

  “He got by us all,” Josiah said, his big head shaking in sorrow. “It’s our fault
, Tyler. We were supposed to have your back.”

  Tyler raised a faint grin. “It all worked out, gentlemen. I’m alive. And we have all three Millers in custody.”

  “We heard the shooting, and were on our way to you,” Harold said, gazing inside the office as Tyler had done. “Glad to know you were faster than the kid.”

  “Only barely,” Tyler admitted. “I hit the floor, and his shots made a mess of Victor’s office instead of me. I hope he’s not mad.”

  “Well, he is mad. Madder than hell, to be exact.”

  Tyler and Charlene jerked around to see Victor hobbling on his crutches toward them. Even in the near dark, Tyler recognized Victor’s furious expression. “Hey, now, I told you the plan, and you went along with it,” he protested.

  “Everything except her nearly getting herself shot up,” Victor snapped, scowling at Charlene. “That closet she hid herself in ain’t any kind of cover. That kid in there could have blown her to bits. Then what would I tell her mother?”

  “Well, he didn’t,” Charlene retorted hotly. “And you need to be resting.”

  “How in the tarnation can I rest with all this goldarn shooting going on? Y’all about woke up the entire town.”

  Tyler gazed down the street. Sure enough, lanterns burned, lighting the folks who had been woken in the dark by screams and gunshots, all walking down the street toward them.

  “I’ll handle this,” Harold muttered, heading toward them, his rifle in his hand.

  “I reckon I’ll have a chat with the folks from this way,” Josiah said with a sigh.

  Walking away, he strode in the opposite direction to meet with the throng that came up from the other part of town. Tyler, Charlene stuck to his side like a burr, approached the door to the sheriff’s office to listen. He heard what sounded like sobs, and a deeper voice cursing. Yet, no guns fired from within its depths.

  “I wonder if he’s out of ammunition,” he said, his tone soft.

  “Maybe he is,” Charlene replied, her head tilted as she, too, listened to the sounds. “He could have kept on firing and didn’t.”

  “Get back here,” Victor demanded. “I ain’t done scolding you.”

  Tyler, Charlene’s arm still around his waist, went back to the others and stared into Victor’s rage. “Stop it now, Vic,” he said, growing irritated in his pain. “She wasn’t supposed to be here, but I sure am not going to complain about it. She may have more guts than brains, but I tend to like that sort of thing in a woman.”

  Charlene frowned and poked him in the ribs. “I have plenty of brains, you cow chaser. Insult me again and see what happens.”

  Tyler, grinning, hugged her tightly under one arm. “I can’t wait to see what happens.”

  Victor finally traded his scowl for a wry grin. “Yeah, she always did tend to act before she thought things through. Seems to believe she’s invincible or some such.”

  “Gentlemen,” Charlene retorted, her hands on her hips. “I am here. You can talk to me.”

  “All right,” Victor said, hopping around on his crutches. “Since no one got themselves killed, I’m going home. I do believe I was commanded to rest. By some high-handed female, if you can believe it.”

  Muttering under his breath, Victor hopped down the alley that led to his house and disappeared into the dark. The other men shook Tyler’s hand, tipped their hats to Charlene, and also spoke of going home to their families. They dispersed, Tyler watching them go. After they left, and the townsfolk also went their separate ways, Harold and Josiah returned.

  Tyler gazed at the open door to the sheriff’s office thoughtfully. “I’m just going back in there and get the keys to the cells. In case Johnson comes back.”

  Before Charlene or any of the others objected, he walked cautiously inside, listening for any sounds from the occupants. He heard nothing save soft crying from Ian. Plucking the keys from the floor, as well as the revolver from the desk drawer, he went back outside.

  “Anyone know where their horses are?” he asked.

  Josiah pointed. “Right there. The stolen animals from the Bar H.”

  With Charlene, Harold and Josiah with him, he went to the horses. Examining them, he discovered the reason why there were no more shots fired from inside the jail cell. Ammunition belts hung from the saddle horn of one while a revolver, still in its holster, hung from the other.

  “So, he is empty,” Tyler said with a sigh. “He can’t shoot the cell lock and escape that way. Ian wasn’t even armed, poor kid.”

  “We’ll get these animals back to their owners,” Harold said. “I’ll hold onto everything for now.” He untied the horses’ reins from the rail.

  “I reckon I’ll stand guard on the jail.” Josiah said with a grin at Tyler. “You get yourself fixed up.”

  “He’s going home to a well-earned tongue lashing from my mother,” Charlene said, her arm through Tyler’s. “One he won’t soon forget.”

  Tyler sighed but grinned in the dark as Charlene led him down the dark, muddy street. That was the second time she referred to her home as his, and he certainly liked the implication. Her arm never left his waist as they walked, and when Harold peeled away with a wish for them to have a good night, taking the horses with him, her hand reached across his stomach to take his within it.

  “I’m so glad you’re all right,” she said as they walked.

  He grinned down at her. “I’m so glad you’re here, even if you don’t listen to what is sensible.”

  “Sensible is in the eye of the beholder.”

  Once Olivia discovered Charlene had gone to the sheriff’s office, and that she was in the middle of a shootout, Tyler wasn’t the only one who received a serious tongue lashing. As Tosahwi looked on in wide-eyed astonishment, Olivia alternately wept and railed at her daughter. Tyler sat in an armchair, dabbing at the cut over his left eye with the bloody handkerchief, his head pounding.

  “What am I going to do with you?” Olivia cried, tears streaming down her face. “What will happen to me if you get killed?”

  Charlene stared at the floor, her hands clenched around the folds of her skirts. “I’m sorry, Mother. I had to help.”

  “You had to help,” Olivia snapped. “You had to help nearly get yourself killed.”

  Storming away, weeping, Olivia went to her room and slammed the door behind her.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Panic leapt down Aaron’s throat. I can’t lose another brother. I just can’t. “What do you mean?”

  “Just that,” George replied, turning his gaze back to Elmer. “I wanted him to drink some water, he needs it, but he won’t wake up.”

  Squatting on his heels beside Elmer, Aaron rested his hand on his brother’s brow. “He’s got a fever. Bad one.”

  “I know.”

  His fingers at Elmer’s throat found his pulse, slow and weak, but steady. “Keep cooling his face and chest,” Aaron said, standing. “If we can get his fever down, he’ll wake up.”

  George grabbed his canteen and trotted to the stream, filling it with nearly cold water. Returning, he dribbled it on Elmer’s face, throat and chest as Aaron went to his saddlebags to pull out the bottle of whiskey and the remains of the shirt they used to bandage Elmer’s wound with. Kneeling again, he pulled the serape up, and removed the bloody bandage.

  Soaking the wound in the whiskey, Aaron observed the swelling around the wound. “It’s getting infected. Help me roll him over.”

  Removing the crusty bandage from the wound on his back, Aaron packed it with a clean cloth, then they rolled Elmer onto his back again, his weight holding the packing in place. He bandaged Elmer’s front wound again as George continued to bathe Elmer in cool water. “If we keep his wounds clean, he’ll make it,” Aaron said, trying to reassure himself as well as George.

  George nodded. “I know.”

  Dusk fell and with it went the temperature. The wind picked up and along it drifted the distant sound of thunder. “Not again,” George groaned.


  “Keep quiet,” Aaron grumbled. “Maybe this one won’t be as bad. At least, it’s cooling us off.”

  After eating the soup George brewed, they set some aside for Elmer in case he woke. His fever had diminished a little, giving Aaron new hope. “We have to build a shelter of sorts for him,” he told George. “We can’t let him get soaked if we get rain.”

  With oilskins they hadn’t used since they left the north and slender willow branches, Aaron and George created a makeshift shelter over Elmer, draping the heavy oilskins across the bent wood. Though his boots stuck out at the end, Aaron didn’t worry too much about that. The rest of his brother was protected, and most of all his wounds would remain dry.