Gambling on the Outlaw

by Margaret Madigan

  Nevada is no easy place for a woman, especially for Beth Caldwell, a gambler’s widow with an independent streak. When she refuses to marry the local cattle baron—who wants to add her land to his empire—Beth ends up with a powerful enemy. But it’s not until she finds a handsome outlaw hiding in her barn that her trouble really begins.

  Isaac Collins survived the Civil War only to find himself the scapegoat for stagecoach robbery and murder. With nothing left to lose, he gambles everything on revenge…and barely escapes with his life. He stumbles back to Beth’s place, and as she nurses him back to health something tender and heated grows between them.

  But in Nevada, sometimes everything can ride on one high-stakes game of chance…and Beth’s rejected suitor will do whatever it takes to get what he wants.

  Gambling on the Outlaw

  a Nevada Bounty novel

  Margaret Madigan

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 by Margaret Madigan. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  Entangled Publishing, LLC

  2614 South Timberline Road

  Suite 109

  Fort Collins, CO 80525

  Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.

  Select Historical is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

  Edited by Alycia Tornetta

  Cover design by Heather Howland

  Cover art by The Killion Group, Inc.

  ISBN 978-1-63375-296-2

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition June 2015

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Discover more Select Historical titles… Dark Secrets, Deep Bayous

  A Duke’s Wicked Kiss

  The Unforgiven: Athos

  The Thornless Rose

  To my husband, Darin, for his support and patience; and to my kids, Scott, Rachel, and Nathan, because they think it’s cool Mom wrote a book. I love you all.

  Chapter One

  ~Beth~

  Palmer, Nevada

  May 1872

  “Push, Mary. This baby isn’t going to birth itself,” I said, trying to be patient with the frightened girl.

  Barely fifteen, she’d married Sheriff Gil Dawson, a burly man of forty-five, and quickly become pregnant. As the midwife, nobody ever asked my opinion about how the mother got pregnant; it was just my job to bring mother and babe through the birth alive and in one piece.

  My heart went out to the poor girl, ill-prepared as she was to find herself married and birthing a baby so young.

  Mary whimpered, struggling to bring the first of what would probably be many babies into the world.

  “Be gentle with her, Beth. She’s doing her best,” Mary’s sister Becky told me, about halfway gone pregnant herself.

  “Birthing babies is anything but gentle, Becky. It’s not for the fainthearted.” The baby’s head finally slipped free of the birth canal, and Mary mewled her distress. “Hold up, Mary.”

  I cleaned the bloody slime from the baby’s mouth as best I could and made sure the cord wasn’t wrapped around its neck.

  “All right, Mary. Give me another good push and this whole thing will be over with.”

  She bore down and grunted and her son slid easily from her womb, announcing his arrival with a lusty squall. I sighed as I wrapped him in a towel and handed him off to Becky to be cleaned. Fate smiled on this baby when he was conceived. Being a boy, something he had no control over, would give him a leg up in the world without any extra effort on his part.

  The women of Mary’s family crowded the small room, taking over some of the chores of childbirth I usually did. They cleaned and wrapped the babe, and once I delivered the afterbirth I was all but dismissed as the women went about the ritual I’d seen with every baby I’d ever birthed—the approval and admiration of the newborn, and the praise of the mother for enduring her ordeal. They didn’t want me to participate any more than I wanted to, so I cleaned Mary and made sure she was comfortable, then grabbed a towel and went to the water pitcher on the sideboard to wash the blood off my hands and arms.

  As the ladies clucked over the baby, I washed my hands and drifted over to the door where I heard the murmuring of male voices from the other room. I couldn’t resist the temptation to eavesdrop, so I didn’t even try. Not that anyone paid me any attention, but I used the time while I listened to rummage in my bag and prepare a packet of medicine for Mary.

  “The way I heard it, he robbed the stage but he only killed the men. He left the ladies alive,” this from Robert Summers, Becky’s husband.

  So they were discussing the big news everyone had been talking about recently—the robbery of a stage last month on the road between Carson City and Virginia City.

  “He robbed it all right, but he killed everyone.”

  I recognized Clay Dearborn’s voice, which wasn’t difficult since he’d spent the last six months trying to convince me to marry him, and I’d spent those six months putting him off.

  “Gentlemen, as sheriff I can tell you beyond doubt that Isaac Collins is a stage robber and murderer. I’m certain if we dig further into his past, we’ll discover that his criminal legacy is long and prolific.”

  “And to think, he fooled me into hiring him at the ranch,” Clay said. “Takes a lot to get one by me.”

  “How could you have known?”

  “Clay, wasn’t your brother, Roger, on that stage?” Robert asked.

  “Yes, he was,” Clay confirmed, his voice tight with anger.

  Roger had been a local attorney and rumor had it that he’d aspired to parlay his success and reputation into a run at governor. It wasn’t much of a secret, though, that Roger and Clay weren’t as close as blood would suggest. But now that Roger was gone, Clay seemed to be taking it harder than expected. Maybe it was just family pride that demanded revenge, or maybe Clay had really had some fondness for his older brother after all.

  “What’re we gonna do about Collins?” Summers asked.

  “So far he’s evaded capture, but it won’t be long before he’s caught,” Sheriff Dawson pronounced as if he held his own personal court.

  Cold and calculating, Dawson made my skin crawl. I suspected he was out to own Palmer, Nevada, no matter who got in his way. He wanted his own little Western empire, and while Dawson worked on acquiring power and property in town, Clay was out to own the entire range.

  When my husband Frank was killed a year ago, Dawson had delivered the news as if it were of no more concern to him than having stepped in a pile of horse droppings. He found it unpleasant, but forgot about it shortly after. He’d claimed Frank had accused another poker player of cheating and Dawson had warned them both. He said the man Frank insulted got angry and drunk. When Frank won he left the tavern and the other man followed. D
awson told me the two of them had had it out in the alley and killed each other. Case closed.

  I couldn’t deny Frank was plenty responsible for his own death, between his gambling debts and rowdy benders, but the worst part of it was that if I’d been there, Frank may never have gone into that alley. For the first time ever I wasn’t at Frank’s side when he played, and I carried that guilt with me. We’d always been partners and because I wasn’t there that night, Frank was dead.

  “You’ll catch him that much faster if you set bounty hunters on him. They’re a lot more motivated,” Clay said.

  “Look, Clay, I know you want to find your brother’s killer. We all do. But this town doesn’t have the kind of money necessary to attract serious bounty hunters,” Dawson said.

  “Don’t worry. I won’t bankrupt your precious town. I’ll offer the bounty myself. Five thousand dollars.”

  That was a lot of money. The only thing that could give a person more freedom in the world than being a man was having money.

  Robert whistled low. “That’s an impressive bounty, Clay. Might even make me consider going after Collins.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Dawson said. “Collins is a cold-blooded killer and you’re a blacksmith. He’d have you dead before you knew he’d taken aim.”

  “He’s right, Summers. You don’t want to leave your wife a widow,” Clay said.

  “Not with you sniffing around the skirts of every widow in town, I don’t.”

  I smiled in the shadows where I listened.

  “I’m hardly sniffing around anyone’s skirts.”

  “What about that Caldwell woman? You’ve been after her since her husband died,” Summers said.

  At the mention of my name I held my breath, waiting to hear what they’d say.

  “Marrying her would solve some of my problems, I’ll give you that.”

  “Like that empty bed of yours?” Dawson laughed, and Summers chuckled.

  I shuddered at the thought.

  “Among other things,” Clay replied. “But mostly it’ll get rid of that bothersome flock of misfits she’s collected and add her property to my ranch.”

  “At least that’s the most honest you’ve been in the last six months,” I said, leaving my hiding place.

  My sudden appearance had exactly the effect I’d hoped for—three startled faces turned in unison and fixed on me.

  “By the way, Sheriff, congratulations on a healthy baby boy,” I said.

  Dawson did an impressive job of regaining his composure. “Thank you, Beth. Appreciate your help.”

  “My pleasure,” I said. Because it would never have occurred to him to ask after the poor girl, I added, “And your wife is just fine, too.”

  He mumbled what I assumed was more gratitude.

  I handed him the medicine packet. “Brew this as a tea three times a day for the next few days. It’ll help her with pain, and help prevent infection. I’ll be around tomorrow to check on her, and collect payment.”

  He nodded. “I’m sure Mary will be glad to see you.”

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me,” I said, heading for the door and collecting my bonnet and wrap. Clay followed close behind, taking my wrap and draping it over my shoulders.

  “I’ll walk you out.”

  “There’s no need.”

  “I insist.”

  Stepping outside onto the boardwalk, I pulled my wrap closer against the cool evening air. Boreas nickered where I’d tied his reins to the rail. He was so close.

  “I need to be getting home, Clay. Thank you for walking me out.”

  He took my elbow in his hand, then slid his fingers down my arm until he had my hand in his grip. Raising it to his lips, he kissed my knuckles—the same knuckles that had just been nearly wrist deep in Mary Dawson. This amused me so much I dropped my gaze to avoid an outright giggle.

  “Let me treat you to supper,” he said.

  “It’s been a long day. I really just want to get home,” I said by way of excuse, making a quick retreat to Boreas and strapping my bag to the saddle.

  I was ready to climb onto the horse when Clay startled me from behind. “There’s something I need to discuss with you. It won’t take long. You need to eat, don’t you?”

  My stomach rumbled at the mention of food, and I realized I hadn’t eaten all day. Clay smiled and took my hand again. Without waiting for my assent, he tucked it into the crook of his elbow and guided me toward the Silver Terrace Inn.

  I heaved a long, pained sigh, but short of snatching my hand back and stomping away like a spoiled child, I had little choice but to follow him. “Fine, but I really can’t stay long.”

  We crossed the street and I glanced back longingly at Boreas, who tossed his mane at me, probably wanting as much as I did to just go home.

  Clay patted my hand and smiled down at me. “What you heard in there. It was just men talking. I want you to be my wife for all the right reasons.”

  My eyes came up and caught his, which sparkled blue in the evening light. I had my doubts that his right reasons were the same as mine.

  “Which would be?”

  “You’re a beautiful woman and I’m drawn to you. I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather have on my arm and in my home.”

  I removed my hand from his arm as we climbed the steps to the Inn. Before I could open the door myself he came up beside me and opened it for me.

  “It doesn’t hurt that I have a hundred and sixty acres right next door that you’re just itching to get your hands on,” I answered.

  The one thing I’d always be most grateful to Frank for was winning the deed to our homestead. A wandering life had been exciting for a while, and I’d loved Frank enough that I’d have followed him wherever he went, but when I first set eyes on the homestead, Frank suddenly had competition for my heart. One look and I knew I was home. Now that Frank was gone, I’d be lost without it.

  Clay acknowledged my statement with a nod. His expression remained warm and pleasant as we entered the dining room of the Inn and took a seat near the window. I found myself wondering why I kept resisting his offer of marriage. He’d spent months courting me, and really, he was everything most women looked for in a husband—a handsome, rich man who wanted to take care of his wife. I had to admit, too, that at twenty-eight and already once married, I wasn’t exactly a fresh maiden. On the other hand, I liked my life and had no real reason to marry Clay or anyone else.

  After ordering drinks and our meal for us, Clay finally answered my accusation.

  “It’s no secret I want that land. You don’t use it for anything anyway, so adding it to my property would be easy. But I want you, too, Beth.”

  Somehow that didn’t come as a surprise. He wanted my land, and if I came as part of the deal, so be it. I had to remind myself that a relationship like the one I had with Frank only came once in a lifetime, and if I ever married again, it would probably be the kind of marriage of convenience most women suffered through. I suddenly imagined a future with Clay stretching out in front of me like a long, dismal, dusty trail.

  “What I do with my land is my business, even if I choose to allow the entire hundred and sixty acres to lay fallow.”

  What Clay didn’t know was that I had dreams of raising horses.

  I pushed my chair back, meaning to leave. I didn’t want to be there anyway, so now was as good a time as any to go. “I really should be going, Clay.”

  Just then the commotion of arriving travelers filled the hotel lobby, and a familiar face came into view in the dining room doorway.

  “Beth Caldwell,” Silas Devol boomed. He wasn’t a tall man, but he had a commanding presence that filled a space. His slicked black hair, thin mustache, and confident smile added to his charm.

  He approached our table, but his companions remained in the lobby, most likely making room arrangements with the manager.

  Clay stood and offered his hand.

  “Clay Dearborn,” he said, taking the hand Silas offered.
<
br />   “Silas Devol.”

  “You’re the famous gambler.”

  Silas’s blue eyes twinkled as he said, “Guilty as charged.”

  “What brings you to Palmer?” I asked.

  “The Placer Saloon is sponsoring a tournament, and I couldn’t resist the big payouts.”

  Clay gestured to one of the empty chairs at our table. “Please, join us. Tell me, how do you know Beth?”

  “Through her husband, of course. We often faced each other across the table.”

  “I don’t know if you heard, but Frank died a little over a year ago,” I said, glancing down at my lap and swallowing hard against the tightness in my throat. Sometimes, even after a year, it hit me that he was gone and I could only barely hold back the sadness.

  “I had heard the news, and I’m sorry for your loss.”

  The flat look on his face seemed at odds with the sentiment, like he had more to say but wasn’t quite sure how.

  “Thank you, Silas.”

  His men approached the table to let him know they’d made arrangements for rooms, and he told them he’d be up after he shared supper with us. I was grateful for his company, if only because it saved me from an awkward meal alone with Clay. However, I had the feeling throughout the meal, when I caught Silas glancing at me, that he was waiting for something.

  When Clay went to pay the bill, graciously picking up Silas’s tab as well, Silas finally had his chance.

  “Well, out with it. You’re nearly squirming in your seat with whatever it is you want to tell me,” I said, keeping my voice low enough to not carry.

  His typical poker face soured only a little in response. Reaching into his jacket, he retrieved a folded piece of paper. He opened it and pushed it across the table to me.

  “Frank owed me money before he died. Four thousand eight hundred, to be precise.”

  The paper was an I-owe-you, with Frank’s signature clearly scrawled below the amount he owed. I reached for my glass and gulped water to cover my surprise.

  He sighed, and I almost believed he found the situation unpleasant, but I knew him and his ilk well enough to know that manipulating people was one of the things they did best. It was part of his job, after all.