ANNIE GETS HER GUNMEN
The Lost Collection
Larissa Stone
MENAGE EVERLASTING
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IMPRINT: Ménage Everlasting
ANNIE GETS HER GUNMEN
Copyright © 2010 by Larissa Stone
E-book ISBN: 1-60601-650-4
Cover art by Madison
First E-book Publication: March 2010
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ANNIE GETS HER GUNMEN
LARISSA STONE
Copyright © 2010
Prologue
1882 – Colorado
Annabel Wallace didn’t fool herself into believing the Wyoming Territory Sharpshooter’s Club might actually let a woman compete in their twelfth annual contest, but she wanted to make the effort for three important reasons.
One, she wanted the money. She didn’t need it desperately, but the cost of the trip that far away was significant, and if they didn’t let her shoot, she didn’t have a chance to recoup any of her travel expenses. The honor was as significant as the prize money.
Two, her father had competed in the competition, and she loved the idea of placing in the same contest. Her father, a renowned gunsmith, taught her everything about guns including how to shoot. She’d been handling guns since she’d been big enough to hold one without dropping it on her foot.
And three, because she was a damn fine marksman and wanted to test her abilities against the best. Her father had always been filled with pride over that fact. He told her on several occasions there wasn’t a man in town that could out shoot her. The very few times she’d competed informally for sport, she’d always been victorious. A small part of her wanted to see if she could beat anyone else besides strangers who shot for a living and those outside of this small town.
Her father, Alistair, God rest his soul, had competed in the sharpshooter’s competition and won first place. A gunsmith by trade, her father didn’t participate after the first year because twelve years ago, her mother had died during the winter, and he’d been left with the responsibility of raising a young child all alone. Not much extra time in his life for out of town journeys with a daughter in tow.
The recent death of her father had sent her digging through all the things he left behind, a difficult chore to muster with her emotions so sensitive at his recent passing. Sorrow now ingrained with his loving memory.
He didn’t have much, but the few possessions he prized were well loved. A tobacco pipe, black with repeated use and carved by his older brother long ago rested on his nightstand. A neatly-folded handkerchief her mother had stitched that still held a faint fragrance of rosewater was in the top drawer of the same nightstand. And finally the plaque, given to him as winner of the first annual Wyoming Territory Sharpshooter’s Club competition, that hung on the wall next to his bed.
Just over the border into the Wyoming Territory and near Colorado’s state line, in a small corner near the Nebraska state boundary, the annual event was held in the small town of Pine Haven. It was an event that brought shooters from all over the west to compete.
By sending a letter of interest to the competition well before the deadline to enter and signing it A. Wallace, she hoped to at least be allowed to make her case to the contest’s judges upon her arrival. That would secure her a place to try and qualify, if they would let a woman compete.
She’d been turned away from the last two competitions in nearby towns, but hope sprang eternal. Perhaps the Wyoming Territory Shooter’s Club would be different.
Her only chance for success was that they underestimated her skill and desired her entrance fee more than ostracizing her from the competition. Heartened by the fact that the “official” rules posted in the paper didn’t state that a woman couldn’t participate, Annabel gathered her precious weapons and packed for a trip to the wilderness of the Wyoming Territory.
* * * *
Dane Larsen spun the chamber of his pistol, slapped it shut with a snap, straightened his gun arm, and fired at a target twenty-five feet away.
Bull’s-eye.
The Wyoming competition loomed ever closer. With his growing ranch busier than cowboys herding cats, practice time was very limited. His two older brothers gave him shit about the competition, but that alone wouldn’t stop him from going.
Shooting a gun was one of the few skills he excelled in, next to breaking horses. His brothers wished he would give up the shooting all together in favor of taming horses but didn’t begrudge him an annual shooting tournament. They did, however, affectionately harass him until the day he left.
Dane twisted his head, looked over one shoulder and surveyed the western sky. He figured he had about another hour of light before he’d have to head home. With the sun casting an ever deepening orange cast to the land, Dane sighted the target and readied to fire.
The second shot went through the center of the second target he’d set up.
Bull’s-eye. A smile crept up inside as he tried to keep his emotions buried. Focus.
Shifting the gun to his left hand, he aimed and fired at the third target.
Not a bull’
s-eye. Damn it. He was an inch off the mark and it might as well have been a yard. Not that he needed to be able to shoot as well left handed, but the skill would certainly give him much needed confidence.
This year, he planned to beat Garrett Butler by a mile instead of an eighth of an inch. After coming in second place for two years in a row, Dane would be damned if he’d take a second place trophy home again this year.
Four years ago, he’d won first place easily. Three years ago the competition was tighter, and he’d won on the final day with his final shot. The smoke stung his eyes as the scent of gun powder filled his lungs, and his target had registered a big hole in the center for a win that second year in a row. He still remembered the rush of elation at that finishing bull’s-eye and the hard-won first place trophy.
Two years ago, a new lawman from a town on the Colorado border showed up and narrowly beat him in a sudden death match.
Sheriff Garrett Butler had swaggered into the contest and taken that first place trophy by a hair’s breadth. It was the first time in the history of the contest that a measurement of the target had to be used to determine the winner.
The lawman was admittedly a very good shot. Dane conceded the contest graciously that first year. Garrett was a good man by all accounts and a worthy contender.
Last year, Dane had been fit to be tied at the second loss in a row. Another close match resulted in a second tie for first place that had to be broken. Dane had missed the mark by an eighth of an inch, whereas Garrett hit the damn thing dead center.
They each had two wins. No other contestant had ever won this contest three times. If Garrett won this year, it would be three times in a row, and Dane didn’t plan to let that happen.
He loaded his pistol again, put three new targets in place, and hit three bull’s-eyes before he switched to his rifle.
A dozen rifle shots yielded a dozen bull’s-eyes before the sun dropped beneath the horizon. The pungent scent of gun powder fogging the air smelled just like success.
* * * *
“Hey, Sheriff, Billy Anders wants to challenge you to a gunfight. He’s over at the saloon bragging about how good a shot he is,” Delbert, Sheriff Garrett Butler’s only deputy, announced the moment he entered the jailhouse building. His friend Cody stood just outside the door.
Garrett inwardly sighed. Another one? Jesus. If he won the shooting contest for the third time in Wyoming Territory this year, the gunfight requests like this would only get worse.
“Tell Billy I’m not interested.”
“But, Sheriff, you don’t want them to say you’re yellow, do ya?” Cody’s expression was incredulous.
“I’m not a coward because I don’t want to gun a man down in the street. These reckless fights have to stop. I almost killed that last fool by accident.” Garrett had learned to shoot fast to disable, not to kill. His last “street gunfight” was an impromptu one thrust upon him the second he exited the jailhouse one afternoon. At least this potential conflict was forewarned.
The only time Garrett hit dead center with his gun these days was during target practice.
Cody came inside the office. “Billy says he can shoot the gun out of your hand before you even draw.”
“Well, that’s stupid. If I haven’t drawn yet, I wouldn’t have a gun in my hand, now would I? Idiots.”
Cody’s confused expression, as he worked out the problem of whether Billy could shoot a gun out of his hand before he drew, made Garrett tired.
“Tell him I’ll meet him for target practice if he wants a test of skill, but I’m not meeting him in the public street for a gunfight. Folks might get hurt. Or worse, I might get hurt.”
“But you’re the best shot in the West.”
“I appreciate your faith in my abilities, Cody, but the answer is no. I’m not meeting anyone in the street for a shoot-out.”
The two exchanged a defeated glance but soon shrugged. He was glad they understood no meant no and didn’t keep hounding him.
Garrett hoped his deputy would be all right while he was gone to the tournament.
“I expect you to keep the peace while I’m gone, Delbert, and that means no gunfights in the streets.” He also sent a pointed look at Cody.
Delbert smiled. “They don’t want to test my skills, Sheriff.”
Garrett inwardly sighed. He was right. “Are you sure you’ll be okay all alone here?”
“Don’t worry, Sheriff, I’ll be fine while you’re gone.” Delbert, using his most earnest expression, tried to reassure him that he didn’t need anyone else to help govern their small town.
Garrett wasn’t completely convinced. “Still, I’m going to ask the former sheriff to be your back-up deputy while I’m gone, just in case.”
Upon consideration, perhaps he’d get the retired sheriff to look in on Delbert while he was away. Two heads were better than one, and Garrett wouldn’t feel as guilty leaving his young deputy all alone to compete in the Wyoming Shooter’s Club annual event.
“Mr. Allen? He’s probably ninety years old if he’s a day. I’d be better off on my own.”
Garrett didn’t doubt Delbert could handle things for a day or two, but a full week was a long time, even in this sleepy, little western town. “He’s not ninety, and I already asked him. He isn’t going to sit on you, but just fetch him if you get any trouble.”
“All right, but if I don’t need him, I ain’t calling him.”
“Fine.” The townsfolk in Outpost, Colorado were pleasant enough, but there were always strangers coming through this area on their way to Wyoming and the northern territories who didn’t necessarily care about the rules.
Garrett liked order in his town. A bunch of liquored-up cowboys with more shit for brains than sense always put him on edge. Every year, more and more of them traipsed through town, stirring up trouble.
“This’ll be your third win in a row, won’t it, Sheriff?”
Garrett sent him a stern look. “I haven’t won it yet. Don’t count my chickens before they’ve hatched.” He was honored that Delbert had so much faith in his abilities but had a superstition about being over confident.
Delbert shrugged. “Unless there’s some new blood in the contest, you’ll whip them regular shooters like you did the past two years.” His grin of support was hard to resist.
“Thanks, but you never know about these contests. Anyone could show up and beat the pants off of me. I will, however, do my best for a third win, especially if Dane Larsen enters again.”
“Is that the big, blond cowboy you took the win from the last two years?”
Garrett nodded. “I’ll have to be at my best again because last year I only beat him by the length of a flea’s dick.”
Delbert laughed so hard he almost swallowed his chewing tobacco.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, though.”
“Sure.” Delbert grabbed a Winchester rifle from the rack hanging on the wall. “I’ll go ahead and walk through town and check on things. You can go out back and practice if you want, even though you probably don’t need it. I’ve never seen anyone that could shoot as good as you.”
“Thanks.” Garrett didn’t need to practice so much as he needed to center his thoughts and remain calm during the contest. “While you’re out, why don’t you find Mr. Allen and tell him you welcome his assistance.”
“Even if it’s a lie?”
“It’ll make him feel needed. With his wife gone, I’m sure he’s looking for something to entertain himself. It’s not like we have to deputize him, just pretend you might need him.”
“Sure thing, Sheriff.” Delbert nodded as if finally understanding what Garrett wanted to accomplish. He whistled an upbeat tune as he exited the jailhouse. His friend Cody followed him out the door.
Garrett settled in behind his desk and contemplated a third win. He’d have to beat Dane Larsen for a third year in a row. No easy task. Unless a new sharpshooter entered the contest, Dane would be his most difficult opponent.
&n
bsp; He liked Dane. By all accounts, he was a good man and his family’s horse ranch had a reputation above reproach, but Garrett wasn’t about to throw the annual shooting match to save the rancher’s feelings.
Tomorrow, Garrett planned to get in some target practice. It wouldn’t hurt to brush up on his skills with his rifle, either. His revolver was what he used the most in his job, but he didn’t have to shoot it much as sheriff in this town, thankfully. With the exception of all the strangers coming to town to prove they were the fastest gun in the territory. For the folks in Outpost, a threat with his favorite gun did the job in most of the local disputes.
Garrett hadn’t spent as much time practicing this past year.
It likely didn’t matter. He hadn’t practiced last year or the year before either. His gun skills weren’t exactly something he could improve with practice. He’d done his share of target shooting in his life, but the skill he had with a pistol seemed to come from within. Almost as if the gun was an extension of his own hand, he simply pointed, aimed and fired. The bullet out of the barrel always went exactly where he wanted it to go.
Garrett didn’t know why a third win was so damned important, but just the possibility yielded a satisfied feeling he couldn’t explain. Not only would he be the first man to ever accomplish it, a third win meant he was skilled and not just lucky.
As long as overconfidence didn’t ruin him, he should garner this win for a third time and earn a place in their championship history books.
Chapter One
The Apple Blossom Hotel and Saloon was about to discover the depths of Annabel’s anger in the form of a lengthy, ear-piercing screech if they didn’t straighten out the mess with her lost room reservation.
Annie Gets Her Gunmen Page 1
