by Jillian Hart
The Bounty Hunter’s Heart
Jillian Hart
Contents
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Epilogue
Also by Jillian Hart
Copyright © 2019 by Jill Strickler
Cover art by The Killion Group
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
1
You won't get out of this alive, McMurphy. The outlaws's words played once again in his mind as Winn McMurphy clenched his jaw and took another unsteady step directly into the pummeling fury of a shivering cold Montana storm. The near freezing wind sliced through the layers of flannel and wool he wore as if they weren't there. The hard gray bullets of rain plunged from a gun-metal sky that made it impossible to see two feet in front of him.
The only silver lining in this hard, unrelenting gale was that he couldn't be seen by the man hunting him. Then again, neither could he see Brant.
"Pa? I don't aim to complain, but I'm awful c-cold." Jack's thin voice sounded exhausted and hurting, small compared to the endless enormous fury of the sudden, surprise storm.
"I realize that, son. Just hold on to me."
"Okay." The boy burrowed in and tightened his arms around Winn's neck. His little child might be tucked safe inside his coat, but the kid was shaking too hard, he was too dangerously cold.
We have to find our shelter and soon. How much farther he had to go, Winn didn't know, but he swore he was close. His son couldn't endure this icy wind and blinding, torrential rain for much longer and, truth be told, he couldn't either. Especially considering the way his gunshot wound kept bleeding.
He'd survived twelve years as a bounty hunter. He'd fought villains and renegades and the most ruthless criminals in four territories, and he vowed to survive this hunt, too. He had lived through what he couldn't stand or endure, and he wasn't about to lose, not now, not when all he had to do was to find the clapboard gray house not far from the creek up ahead. His son's life depended on it, and he wouldn't fail him, never.
A pop echoed behind him in the thick forest of cedar and pine. A gun shot? So, had Brant found him after all, even in this driving, blinding rain? Winn tightened his grip on Jack, broke into a hard run and plowed straight into the gray waters of the swift-moving creek. If only he hadn't been forced to walk away from his horse at the last town. He splashed through frigid water and sank up above his knees but iron-hard determination kept him going. Lightning flashed as thunder boomed in an eye-stinging and deafening combination, eerily making the gale-force rain glow in the encroaching twilight.
So, it was thunder and not another gunshot, whew. That was a relief. He felt sheepish at the mistake, one a seasoned former lawman should never make, and fear washed through him in an icy wave. Winn tripped on a rock he couldn't see and fell to his knees, cursing at the shock of pain. The boy cradled in his arms shook with a hard gulp of terror.
"Are you okay, Pa? I'm really, very scared."
"I know, and I'm sorry." It tore him apart. "You are going to be out of this soon."
"Are you sure?"
"Never doubt me, son." He would go to the ends of the earth and fight any foe for his child. He frowned at the growing blood stain on his black wool jacket beginning to ice up. The rain was sleet now and the September mountain wind smelled like snow.
He stumbled forward onto his feet, dripping water, and stared at the mud along the nearby creek bank. The threads from a man's boot had filled with water but were fresh. Brant. That ruthless killer and his friend had followed him into the storm after all.
Outraged protective fury roared through him over the boy tucked against his chest, the boy who refused to shed a single tear over how cold, afraid, pitiful or rain-soaked he was or utter a single word or sniffle of complaint. But what about those tracks? Was he in his gun sites right now?
If so, I'm down and I'm out. With his hopes ripped apart, Winn knew he was in complete jeopardy. His goal of getting Jack to safety was doomed if he was spotted. Once again. Brant had proven tenacious, and now, hidden in the gray curtain of unrelenting rain, Winn could unknowingly walk right into the outlaw's sites. He'd never see the bullet coming until it was too late.
Keep going, McMurphy. It was the only obvious solution, aside from finding an old acquaintance first. Winn pressed a kiss to his son's forehead, and the gusts of cold and sleet couldn't lessen the sweet tenderness he had for his son, his Jack, or his fierce determination to protect him from black-hearted men.
"It won't be much farther," he promised, stumbling as the storm shoved him a step backward. He recovered, winced at the pain shooting through his side and at the wet, hot gush of blood sluicing down his shirt.
Keep going, McMurphy, don't stop. He had to keep his son safe.
A man's shadowed shape moved up out of the darkness of the trees. But just as quick, it faded back into the deep, dark gray of what remained of the day. Winn ripped his Peacemaker from its holster and thumbed back the hammer. Lightning snaked across the clouds above and thunder cannoned, strangely muted by the pounding drum of falling sleet.
Where was Brant? Where had he gone? The gusts strengthened and shifted directions, stirring the dark evergreen boughs, and he caught a flash of color in the merciless dark gray and ice world of hail and wind. The boughs moved again and he saw a dark horse standing in relief against the black shadows beneath the cedars.
It was a sorrel. It wasn't the outlaw's white gelding. The pretty horse disappeared from his sight behind the curtain of hail. The storm was growing worse and the late afternoon darker, but there was a road ahead. If he could get there, he could follow it to shelter. He had a place to go in mind, a woman he was determined to look for.
"Hold on, good boy." Love gave him strength as he continued to trudge on despite the worsening storm. "It won't be much farther."
"I'm real glad." Jack's teeth chattered. "Can I have hot chocolate when we get to the lady's house?"
"That's what I promised to make you." He pressed his lips to Jack's temple and forced his boots to carry him forward, attention focused on searching for that blur of red that vanished and now reappeared much farther down the road briefly, mocking him. He summoned up the last of his strength, going as fast as he could. That's when he felt his wound tear open more. Sticky, hot blood sluiced faster down his side.
Just keep Jack alive. Winn blinked, trying to find the best strategy around the man hunting him. Best to go around than through, he thought, wishing he felt better. Stronger. But he was losing too much blood. Hi
s vision doubled, and he couldn't find the pathway through the woods he'd just been following, and Brant's man had almost found him anyway. So much for deciding to stay off the road.
He thought of Jack and gathered his resolve. Just keep going, McMurphy. His boy was what mattered. He couldn't stop the weather anymore than he could stop bad men from doing harm in this world, but he would make good on his promise to his son. Or he'd die trying.
His vision gave out, and he went down knee first. He hit the ground with teeth-rattling force. The fury of the wind filled his ears, and he swiped icy rain out of his face and then his son's. The frigid cold doused him like a glacier, and pain cut like a knife straight through him.
I can't die this way. He was lost and all out of hope, but the boy buttoned up in his jacket, right over his heart, gave him reason to keep going. He stumbled through the trees, teeth gritted. He blinked against the darkness trying to steal the light from his eyes. He pushed harder in the driving storm, only his iron will kept him going. That, and his quest to stay alive.
* * *
Saydee Carson shook the hail from her shawl, shivering from the surprisingly inclement storm. The house felt winterish and gloomy, which was a sad thing for September as there were still leaves turning gold and rust on the trees on her drive back home from work, although they were being torn off the limbs fast. Good thing her home didn't feel as icy as the worry filling her up at the unread letter still in her bag. She dreaded what those written words might say. You're going to have to open it, Saydee.
Not at all what I want to do. She sighed, rolled her eyes and watched Pete, her big black German shepherd, pad to a stop. He sat politely near her feet as she hung up her cloak to dry. Whew, the hail was turning to ice out there and hard. It slashed against the windows on the northern side of the house, tinkling like shards of glass breaking. She patted her dog's soft head and rushed to the kitchen stove to stir up the fire.
The stove door squeaked slightly and she reached for a handful of kindling. The unopened letter felt like a lead weight on her heart. She still didn't want to open it, and she'd swallowed down the feeing of dread that had settled over her when she'd accepted her mail from the postmaster in town. Fortunately, a storm had been brewing, blowing in on the wind so she'd raced it home. She'd barely pushed the stable door shut behind her before the driven wind struck with its full force.
She breathed in the scent of wood smoke, comforting her, as she fed the glowing coals. The dog came up behind her to bump her, perhaps alarmed that the wind howled against the siding like a blizzard's fury. The tinkle of ice changed to the drum of wet snow, and what a relief that the flames snapped greedily as they grew and chased the chill from the air. She still had the envelope to open. The dread she felt began to outweigh the imagined blacksmith's anvil on her chest.
She couldn't put off opening it forever but still wasn't ready to read it, whether it was good news or bad. Then again, it was never going to be good news since it was from her mother, a woman who had become more bitter and hurtful as the years went by.
I don't feel strong enough for that today, she thought, since the day was going so well except for the weather. Why ruin it at this exact moment? Maybe she would just keep putting off reading it. Procrastination was one solution. Putting it into the stove and letting it burn was another.
The shepherd spun away from her and raced through the kitchen, barking sharply at the back door. Saydee opened the damper wide and swung the stove's iron door shut with a clunk. "What is it, my sweet boy? It isn't that bothersome elk again, is it?"
The dog whined and scratched one paw against the back door's frame. Whatever was out there was important.
"I'll let you out after I make sure it isn't Mr. Elk, or those moose!" This time of year, you could never tell if it would be a kind creature like a white-tailed deer returning to eat at the horse feeder or, terribly so, a bear interested in the horse stable.
She peered around the kitchen table where the big window looked out at sheets of falling snow and a misty, winter-looking twilight. What had happened to fall? "Well, I don't see a bear. Are you telling me you want to help me feed the deer?"
Pete barked again, which was unusual enough, and hit the door with his paw one more time. There must be a lot of deer out there.
"Whoa there, sweet boy, I'll hurry up and we'll go out together." She grabbed her warmest coat off the wall pegs and shrugged into it while the dog sighed, impatient.
Well, he didn't seem upset, so nothing could be too wrong. It was nice to have company at her side as she opened the door to the punch of wind and hail and braved stepping out into the fierce Montana storm. The shepherd ran ahead, head bowed and ears down, into the gale-force snowfall.
Well, she was surviving her second Montana Territory winter, which looked like it was already starting today, and was glad Aunt Peg had warned her how cold and surprising these white-out storms could be. Well, her aunt was right, considering the bright autumn sun had been shining until a few hours ago. Saydee struggled through the layer of hard-falling snow on the hard-to-see yard, following along the edge of the garden fence and then splashing through the grass the rest of the way toward the stable door.
Montana Territory was proving to be a challenging place, but she was glad she'd moved here. Her soul felt lighter from the pain she'd left behind back home, although she would always carry the weight of grief with her. She was forging a new life on this beautiful land she wished she could afford to buy, and loved being a governess.
Pete's sharp bark rang above the howl of the gusting storm and the drum of the downpour. She squinted in the hard-to-see conditions, unable tell what was wrong. The dog didn't sound as if he was near the stable. Where was he? Saydee shivered in the wind and blinding, snow-turning-to-blizzard, and alarm thudded through her as frigid as fear.
Then she heard the faint, hard-to-hear cough nearby, a sound so small compared to the storm's great raging power. She pushed out into the wind and hailing snow and followed the sound of Pete's barking. The beast of the wind knocked her around, and she wasn't sure if she was making any forward motion at all, although she had to be.
Then she glimpsed a movement at the corner post of her wooden corral. The snow turned ever harsher, now thick veils driving from sky to earth, and nearly hid the post from sight and all but a slight splash of color in the dark storm and snow.
Pete leaped up to catch hold of Saydee's sleeve cuff and tugged her along. The dark color became a black hat brim, then the inky-black of a man's coat. He knelt, head down, wide shoulders slack and unmoving, with a crimson stain bright on the snow that was sticking to the side of his chest on his coat. He drew in a mouthful of air to speak but grimaced, groaning with pain instead.
Someone was wrapped in the man's arms, tucked against his chest, beneath his coat. "My papa is real hurt," the little boy choked out as he wiped blood away from the man's mouth with his mitten. "Now he's breathing just like he's gonna die. He needs help please."
Pete nosed the child's face. The boy's eyes widened, but before she could call the dog back, Pete swiped away the single tear with a quick kiss. The boy looked shocked at the kindness and another tear rolled down his cheek.
"Come here, little boy." Saydee reached out with one hand, and the child went from the dog's side to hers, warily, his single wrenching cough sounding more like a sob of pain and one of total impending grief. It was heart-breaking.
Her fingers curled around the boy's. Why, he felt as frozen as a glacier and quaked from head to toe with strident, wracking cold. Saydee held onto him tightly, welling up with sympathy. She bent down and leaned in closer to look into the father's eyes.
Character shone in the man's gaze looking up at her. Relief trembled through her. He was alive, he was no one to obviously fear, but losing a lot of blood. How had he gotten hurt? Could she save his life? He was a big man and he looked like he was a powerfully fit man and far too heavy to attempt to carry, even assist a little. But not moving and barely
daring to respond to her wasn't a good sign.
"He's gonna die," the little boy choked out.
"No, he's going to live if I have anything to say about it."
Pete nosed her palm, letting her know this was the reason he had barked. Time to get moving and quick because the temperature was falling faster and even this time of year a hard white-out could turn deadly. There was no way she could leave him in time to fetch the neighbor to heft him inside, not in this weather.
So, with her chest tightening up in determination, she left Pete with the man and rushed the vulnerable, half-frozen child into the house. She fought the white-gray beast of the snow to the lean-to door and stumbled into the heated kitchen.
"Thank you, Miss, but what about my papa?" The snow-covered little boy coughed, raspy and croup-sounding, very serious ill, after all.
"I'll go get him, but can you sit right here and warm up by the stove until I get back? I need to go take care of your father." Saydee held the door open for the shepherd to blow in with the snowy wind. "Pete can stay with you."
"Can you really help my pa?" The boy gulped, trembling with chills and fear, and gave Saydee's hand a tight squeeze before letting go of her.
She nodded, wishing she knew how to soothe away his genuine worry and pain. With every passing moment, she knew the man outside was bleeding more, vulnerable in the snow and closer to dying. She turned on her heels, proud of the good dog who nosed the boy gently, intent on comforting away his fears.
It took all Saydee had to walk away from a child in such need, but thoughts of the unconscious man bleeding and freezing alone in this weather drove her forward. The door whipped open, driven by the wind and slammed against the wall. Her heart stopped as a shadow broke away from the twilight-dark curtain of snow.
The bloody man limped weakly across the threshold, a revolver slack in one hand and his face ashen and blue from the frigid weather. Blood bloomed across the side of his jacket and kept spreading.
